Skyrim: Dovahkiin
by Raven Studios
Summary: Bellona's calling in life was to combat the undead (and those who would raise them, whenever possible). She was good at it and content with the life she led. She would never have considered fighting dragons part of her purview...especially because they were extinct.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Opening Notes: Skyrim is, of course, property of Bethesda. I'd also like to cite the Unofficial Eder Scrolls Page (UESP) and the Prima Guide as sources I tend to rely on. I don't know how often I'll update this piece, but I hope to do so with some degree or regularity. I do not have a beta for this piece at this time, so I apologize for any typos I miss. That said, let the adventure begin. ^_^

-B-

"The sun rises, forcing our foes into darkness.

And we stand down to rest.

Watch over us, so our service may continue,

That the dead may walk no more."

Morning Devotional (Arkay's Order of Resters)

Chapter One

The city of Markarth is not a cheerful place. In fact, it's a city brimming with tensions. Local families feud with one another and jockey for precedence. The local population and the Reach's 'Forsworn' glower at one another and pick off the other party's people as often as possible. The Thalmor entrench themselves in the Underkeep—the Jarl's 'residence,' though the residence is just a tiny part of the full, sprawling Underkeep.

I somehow doubt the Thalmor picked Markarth as an outpost solely for their avowed reason: to watch the (supposed-to-be) abandoned Temple of Talos for any 'lawbreakers.' They don't dare do anything _to_ the building, no bars, no locks, no guards, nothing. All they do is watch to make sure it stays empty.

Of course, desecrating the place would cause an uprising, and Markarth is, due to these tensions, the place would go up like a dry pine hit with an uncontrolled fireball. Perhaps _that _is the reason for their outpost here: damage control. The last thing they need is for the Stormcloak Rebellion to pick up followers on this side of the province.

If you go to Markarth, you walk lightly and try not to annoy anyone (though I doubt that's possible). If you get into one fight, you'll probably have two or three more on your hands that, really, have nothing to do with you at all.

It's complex, hence why Markarth rarely sees visitors who don't have very specific (often lucrative) business. It's not worth the risk. (And coin can buy your way out of trouble faster than anything I've seen.)

The City of Stone lives up to its name. It's almost always cold here—cold and damp—partly because of its altitude, but mostly because of the cascading flows of water from further west. When the waters melt or freeze, it wreaks havoc with Markarth's climate.

But 'damp' is fairly a persistent condition.

The city itself is built into a canyon, with many silver veins beneath it. The main avenue—if I can call such a twisty walk an avenue—leads up to the Underkeep, which, itself, surrounds Dwemer ruins and houses more than just the Jarl's equivalent to a longhouse. The main avenue follows and crisscrosses the major flow of water in a way that would be aesthetically pleasing if it weren't for the aforementioned detractions.

Many people find the ruins of Markarth fascinating, perhaps because they're all shut up. I'm not a scholar of Dwemer lore, nor am I an archaeologist or a mercenary to be contracted for body-guarding scholars who want to go into the ruins. So don't ask me questions: what I've said is about as much as I know.

It's not a place I'd like to live. I like the green softness of Falkreath and the Order's headquarters there (though Headquarters is in a rockier spot overlooking Falkreath). Some people claim Skyrim is a cold, empty place, full of stones and with too little sunshine. Clearly those people stick to the main roads and the major cities. There are lush places and beautiful vistas if one walks long enough or knows where to look. Falkreath is not a glamorous place, a minor hold among the Nine Holds, so it gets bypassed by travelers; the Jarl is also far from impressive in his person and in his policies.

The Jarl of Falkreath is Jarl only by default.

I adjusted my furry wrap with my free hand, the other remained wrapped easily around my staff, a work of ebony with a silver veneer, imbued with spells to make the weapon potent against the undead.

Or those who would raise the departed from the long sleep.

Not that the staff itself is an identifying mark; my Order doesn't make itself obvious. How else could we make out investigations or get in close to a target without attracting a lot of notice? Not that I'm a Thalmor, or a necromancer, or a Daedra-worshipper, or anything like that.

I belong to the Order of Arkay, not as a priestess, but as one of Arkay's Resters—the corresponding organization to Stendarr's Vigilants. The Vigilants hunt down and destroy Daedra, harass Daedra-worshippers, and generally try to keep a second Oblivion Crisis from occurring.

They seem to have had luck with that last one.

The Resters, on the other hand, deal with the undead, necromancers, and miscellaneous other things. We have a hitch in our directives that the Vigilants _don't_: necromancy isn't _technically_ forbidden in Skyrim. It should be; a more unholy, profane use of magicka I've never come across. (I don't believe much in the School of Illusion, either, but that's neither here nor there, and more often innocent than necromancy.)

So, on the matter of necromancers, we find them, we watch them, and if we think they're a threat…we act accordingly. Another reason for maintaining some degree of anonymity—some people might call it 'murder' if 'nothing bad has happened yet.' Of course, those people are generally the ones who scream loudest when something _does_ happen and no one did anything to prevent it.

It's a thankless job, most of the time. Then again, one never joins one of the Divines' orders to be thanked or appreciated. Although, from what I understand, Dibella's paladins—her Order of the Lily—are always welcome and usually well-received. Being good-looking helps, I think, since I've never seen an ugly person among them. Nor a plain one, for that matter.

But back to my musty, dusty vocation—though perhaps I shouldn't call it that, since the Resters don't take the same vows that priests do. We don't observe the same fasting regimens, though we are bound not to get soaked to the gills (that is, to drink to excess). We are recommended to follow a loose regimen or prayers and devotions—a little thing when we wake up and again before when we go to sleep. For those of us with magical ability, the spells to trap souls (or otherwise disrupt the cycle of death and life) are strictly forbidden. Though, and the contradiction makes me frown, the use of soul gems is not. Apparently, though, the Order has people working on ways to 'empower' weapons without using soul gems.

Those with the Gift—that is to say 'magicka' and who can conjure weapons for themselves—don't have to enter this debate about ethicality and practicality. I certainly stay away from it.

As far as the injunction against life-and-death-interfering spells…there was a time in the Order's history where necromancy was studied 'to understand how to fight it.' Over time, there was a high enough corruption rate that the Order in Valenwood had to be purged entirely. The idea is admirable, but clearly—as often happens with those who hold the power of life and death over another (or those who can 'do things' with souls)—bad things happen.

We who claim to serve Arkay need to watch our step in this regard. So we do. Or try to.

I'm here in Markarth because a Brother of Arkay is having…difficulties. There's something…wrong…in the Halls of the Dead and the mercenary he sent innever came out again. So he wrote to his superiors—with all those awkward punctuations and weak words—who delegated to us, the Resters, to do something about it.

You can't have horrible things happening in the various Halls of the Dead. It's…sacrilege and even _necromancers_ tend to leave them alone.

Not that Brother Verulus knows me as a Rester. Yet. Again, it helps when no one really knows who you are: that way, if the corruption runs deeper than expected, it doesn't know how deep it needs to dig its hole when it goes to ground.

Like that horrible bit last year: one of our people was passing through Morthal (another minor Hold) and heard about a case of arson. A few things sounded…odd…so he investigated. Turns out it led to a clutch of vampires with a particularly nasty, vicious one at the top of the dung heap.

I was in on that particular venture. As much as I'd like to dedicate myself to wiping out vampires…I feel too much for the thralls that will throw themselves at an attacker, heedless of their own safety, in order to protect their evil masters.

And it was all too clear the vampires cared nothing for their thralls, except to the way those thralls fulfilled their functions.

Jack, the Rester investigating, dragged out his investigation, gave hints of his having formed false impressions, and kept the incognito vampire interested enough in his investigation (but complacent enough not to scare her into alerting her cohorts) until we were on hand to pick up pursuit.

Jack suddenly confronted the vampire and let her run. The little twit ran right, straight to her fellows to tell them they'd been found. They wouldn't have been found (so quickly) if she'd had some sense. Fortunately, good looks and good sense don't always go together, and that was true in her case.

I'd rather stick with necromancers than vampires. But I won't hesitate to fight and kill either if need be.

Brother Verulus, a tired, haggard-looking brother in a robe of rough-woven potato brown, took a deep breath and let it out. The fellow with whom he'd argued had a jaw that hinted at a vociferous interlocutor—not to mention a stubborn one. The way he shoved past me, though, speaks of poor breeding and along argument that had not gone in his favor.

"I'm _sorry_," Brother Verulus began, trying not to sound short with me and failing, "but the Halls of the Dead are _closed _at this time."

"That's the rumor," I responded evenly.

"I can't talk about it," Brother Verulus returned flatly, "rest assured that the Jarl hears everyone's concerns. You'll be able to visit your dead again, soon."

"I'd hope so—the body needs to be taken to its proper resting place—in Riften. I'm here to look into a missing comrade. Rumor says he bought it here in the Halls." 'Bought it.' Not the nicest way to say 'died,' but definitely an effective one.

"Oh…" Brother Verulus' eyes roved from my dark, practical attire to the heavy staff in my hand, and the suggestion of a sword at my hip. A Rester doesn't go out into the world lightly armed. You never know what's out there and while a staff is good for mortal creatures and skeletons, it's not a wonderful thing to bring to bear on a draugr or ghosts, whether it's been silvered-over or not. "Oh, I see. That was…very regrettable…"

It's true that the mercenary _was _from Riften. Now, I might be out of place in thinking it—I'd certainly be out of place to say it out loud—but everyone knows that the 'mercenaries' in Riften aren't _really_ mercenaries at all.

'Grave robbers' is a little more accurate. A thief rarely encounters resistance from the dead if he roams the Halls of the Dead.

Until now, obviously. And I do intend to have the body returned. No sense clogging up the Halls of the Dead here with the body of a potential grave robber. Yes, I intend to search the body and no, I don't intend to keep anything that might have…gotten lost in this mercenary's pockets.

I don't consider myself cynical; I consider myself practical.

"What can you tell me?" I asked, frowning at the heavy doors that now sealed things in as well as out.

Brother Verulus took me by the arm, motioning me to keep up. He said nothing until we reached the doors to the Halls, at which point he stopped and lowered his voice. "We discovered that some of the dead have been desecrated. Flesh has been chewed off, bones have been cracked and the marrow sucked out."

"And it isn't an infestation of some kind?" The idea of something eating the dead is, understandably, disgusting. That it should happen in the Halls of the Dead, where care is taken that vermin don't molest the bodies…I highly doubt I'm looking for skeevers.

"Of some kind," Brother Verulus agreed darkly, "but nothing natural, I'd stake my life on it."

It'd be a safe bet, I think, but I suppressed my instinct to jump to a conclusion. Jumped-to conclusions are as much an enemy as any unnatural thing. "And whatever it was, that was what killed my friend?"

"I don't know," Brother Verulus shifted uncomfortable, cast about. "I moved through the halls for days before I sealed it, finding nothing but the damages. I searched, combed over every inch of the Halls—whatever it was knew when I was there. It had to. I set traps for mice and skeever, found them sprung but without catching anything, placed runes only to find them undisturbed, what little magicka I possess I bent upon searching for any living creature that might be responsible—and turned up nothing."

"So now you fear the dead?" I frowned. What a pretty puzzle.

"I don't know what I fear—I've heard of flesh-eating dead things before, but only as fireside tales meant to scare little children or entertain the older ones." The brother bit his lower lip, his brows furrowing.

Because, of course, all children reach an age when gore and grisly details are very interesting. I was at that age when I realized that staying with the priesthood of Julianos—the only place, anymore, that a child can be formally educated in controlling his or her magicka—meant being a scholar, possibly even bound for the College in Winterhold.

Flesh-eating dead are rare—generally the mistakes of inexperienced necromancers, or necromancers who lost control of whatever they were doing, sometimes when a necromancer's newly raised dead died a particularly ugly death independent of the caster's whims. I've heard of them occurring in nature—though no one is sure _why_—but neither I nor anyone I know has ever actually _seen_ one of those.

"Grisly bit of work," I remarked nonchalantly, careful not to reveal my deep interest in the matter. His report is revealing: we're dealing with something _intelligent_, which narrows the field of dead things it could be.

It also hints that the thing in question might not be dead. Maybe not a necromancer, though, if the bodies are only being chewed upon. _That_ opens up all sorts of unpleasant venues.

"Indeed. If you could get to the bottom of this, the Priesthood of Arkay would gladly reward you." He needn't worry on _that_ score. "Here, this is my key. Please, be very careful." He took the key off the cord that let it hang about his neck and handed it to me, chewing his lip as I took the key, inserted it into the door, and entered the Halls.

"Watch these for me, would you please?" I shrugged off my heavy wrap and my heavy gloves, producing a thinner pair of soft leather ones to protect my hands from any undead-dust (or slime, or 'squishings,' to quote my friend, Shayla).

Brother Verulus took the discarded garments, assured me he would look after them, then watched me enter.

The door thudded shut behind me and, in addition to locking it again—the key worked whether used from the inside or the outside—I sealed it with a spell of my own. Not 'of my own invention' but 'a spell I cast myself.'

This one is rather unique to the Resters and takes a few moments to set up. The first part is purely magical and locks the door itself, binding the portal closed, sealing the gaps around the door and hinges—it's very standard, any mage of decent skill could do it. Many could do it better than I. The second part, which begins the uniqueness, allows the door—for want of a better way to describe it—to detect whether the hands touching the door are living or dead. If dead, and on the side of the door where the spell was cast, the spell activates and works like a fireball rune, immolating the dead thing where it shuffles. If touched by the living, on either side of the spelled door, the door simply holds.

Magicka dealing with securing a place can be complicated to explain to a layman, but follows a certain kind of logic if one performs it often enough.

My fingers protested being jabbed into the gaps between door and frame, then itched with a burning sensation as I set the immolation aspect into place. I didn't take my gloves off, so scratching the irritation did me little good. No one's figured out how to 'fix' that little side effect. All magicka has…quirks…just as all casters leave a hallmark of themselves on those spells they cast.

Matteo swears my hallmark is 'the scent of daft,' but I would also swear his is 'the savor of mediocrity.'

It's all in good fun.

I finished the casting—or, rather, the process—by producing a piece of pale grey chalk and sketching on the floor the mages' shorthand for 'explosive rune' to let any unwary person know the door is warded. I suppose it doesn't do much good if the individual isn't aware of what the mark means. In that case, the symbol works as a bluff, likely to send the intruder back into the corridors to search for another exit.

That's the theory, anyway. I've never bottled up a living person like this. I'm not sure how much intelligence the dead retain—I've never found any proof that they recognize the shorthand for what it is. That knowledge (if they ever had it), like so much else is gone.

I waved a hand before my eyes, felt the eyeballs turn cold in their sockets as pink washed across my vision, like a ray of light bending across the curve in a shiny pitcher, leaving faint tinges of color tugging at the edges of my vision. I should see anything living before it gets within ten feet of me—five if there's a wall between us. I've always had trouble detecting lifelights through walls—my instructor, Brother Hale, said it was all in my head.

That may be, but as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so are lifelights, and I have problems with walls and big noses.

The Halls of the Dead always smell of decay, but the smell is muted, mostly, by the spells laid upon this hallowed ground—that's why corpses in the Halls always look desiccated and dusty, instead of bloated, discolored, and a grievance to the eyes of the dead one's family when they come to visit. The preservation spells also make the housing of the dead more sanitary.

I jumped when a voice spoke, distinct but quiet, muffled by distance but echoing because of the stonework of the Halls. "Not many would walk blindly into a crypt. Most would smell of steel and blood…but very few would not reek of fear."

I swallowed, clenched my left hand, let my right curl tighter around my staff. The dead—with the exception of vampires and ghosts—don't hold conversations. Draugr might Shout, if they're old and could manage it in life, but that doesn't count.

So, a living agent, then, as I began to suspect.

I searched the catacombs meticulously, eyes open for signs of the mercenary who'd come before me.

I'd gone down several rows when the mysterious voice—coming from my left—sounded again. "I feel the hunger inside of you. Gnawing at you."

Huh. Is that so?

"You see the dead and your mouth grows wet."

Cannibal. Alone, though? Or does she have a cabal here, stalking me? Now that I know this has nothing to do with the undead I can pare down my concerns and add a few others.

"Your stomach…growls."

That's disgusting. The idea of eating the dead is detestable—short of monstrous extremes.

I continued, moving a bit faster now. She seems to have latched onto the idea that I'm like her—I don't know why, but who knows how madmen (or madwomen, as the case is here) think? I do know, however, that my best course of action is to play along, find out who she is, whether she's alone, whether there's a deeper root to this.

"It's all right," the voice soothed, "I will not shun you for what you are. Stay. Stay, and I will tell you everything you have forgotten."

"Forgotten?" I must seem engaged, curious, half-afraid of what I might find out.

"Understandably, too. No one else would understand."

I caught it, the faint flicker of lifelight off to my right. I picked my pace, realized she knew I was following. I sped up, so did she until we were running through the twisting catacombs, deeper, deeper, until we reached one of the older wings, to judge by the dust.

Here was the mercenary, his body stinking and nearly devoured, clothes torn away, trinkets cast aside, filleted and trimmed like the first calf of the butchering season—and savored about as much.


	2. Chapter 2

"Night has fallen. Our enemies rise and go.

Grant us strength and keen steel,

That the dead may walk no more."

Evening Prayer (Arkay's Order of Resters)

Chapter Two

Standing just beyond the grisly spectacle of the mostly-eaten mercenary was a woman, dressed in the leathers and furs of a mercenary, or the hunters who often roam the wilds of Skyrim. Her skin was ruddy in the guttering torchlight, evidencing by her pallor that she could get in and out of the tombs. There must be an emergency exit, or some crack in the stonework that leads out into a natural cavern system. It's not uncommon for excavations to run into these things. Still, the fact that she can get in and out seemingly at will is…unnerving.

Her hands and the area around her mouth bore a distinct reddish tint, the stains of blood not properly cleansed, and she had the gleam of madness in her eyes. At her hip hung a heavy mace—I suppose bludgeoning an enemy to death must tenderize the meat quite nicely.

I repressed a shudder, even though one's humor grows understandably macabre in our line of work.

"You were young when you first tasted human flesh, weren't you?" she asked gently, her dark eyes glittering with interest.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." I managed to sound unconvinced, as if her macabre company thus far had stirred something in my mind—something I was loath to have brought up. I'm far from a magnificent actress but it's amazing what necessity can teach a person.

"Don't you? I'm sure it was an accident—a brother or sister died…and one way or another…just a tiny taste. What was the harm?" she chuckled at this, an already unsettling sound made eerie by bouncing off the stonework. "And then the hunger set in," she began to pace, casting knowing looks in my direction every so often. I made it a point to swallow hard from time to time, to glance at the ruined corpse, then quickly away as if each notice of it was indecent…

…indecent because it made me feel indecent things.

Or so the charade went. I have to know if she's the only one, or if there are more of these…perverse creatures.

We'd kill an animal for eating the flesh of man or mer—since man and mer are supposed to know better (short of extremes). There's only one way to deal with _this_ problem.

"And with the hunger…curiosity. A nip here, a taste there, always careful, always…discreet." She reached into the corpse, pulled out a gobbet of meat and slurped it down, delicately licking her fingers clean. "There's more than enough left for two," she smiled invitingly up at me.

I bit my lip, let it go and fiddled with the finger of one of my gloves, working myself into a state of visible agitation. It was like asking Rory Alesse if he thought I was pretty all over again. (The answer was 'no,' but I was also eight, so it doesn't matter.)

A trick one of my mentors imparted: when you need to fake an emotion, see if you haven't experienced it, or something similar, before. If you have, recreate it, project the scenario on the one you face, let the nervous ticks come back, the shyness, the squeamishness, whatever it is…think hard on what you _felt_ _at that time_ and will yourself to feel it again, as real as it was then. _That's_ how you dissemble.

I should point out that it doesn't always work, but it works well enough often enough for me to give it credence.

"You'd be judged; you'd be ostracized." She came closer, reached out one hand—the one not covered in gore—and touched my shoulder. "But I _understand_. I'm a friend. Perhaps your best friend, now. You can let go of your guilt."

"I don't understand…" There was firmness, but uncertainty in the words. Even as I spoke, pretending not to know what she was talking about, I wondered how a person could devour the flesh of their fellow men (and mer) without remorse, without guilt.

It's not natural.

People—Resters or otherwise—eat cows, lamb, deer, a plethora of fish and fowl. But nothing that has the power of _reason_. It's an old, widely accepted taboo.

"I suppose not." She sat down on the stone floor, patted the step beside her.

I made to go sit, but pulled back at the last minute, evidencing growing discomfort.

"Many of our kind block out the memory of that first meal. The shame is just…too much." She shook her head slowly, as if remembering the time when this was true of herself.

Sometimes shame happens for a reason. Not always, but in this case…yes.

Cautiously, as if expecting a trap, I moved towards her, sat down, and waited pensively, as though she were tapping dreadful knowledge long locked away. Locked away, and trying to ooze out.

"You don't need to hide anymore." She took my hand, squeezed it with bony fingers. "Namira, our Lady of Decay, _accepts_ you for what you are."

Oblivion's Teeth!

Namira is, as all know, one of the Daedric Princes, the Loathsome Foulness, the Vile Corruption, the patroness of all things that creep, crawl, and repulse. She revels in the attentions of the degraded, claims as her own those places of unspeakable filth. She is not associated with the undead—typically—but it explains the cannibalism…though not why it should happen in the Halls of the Dead.

"Who…are you…?" I forced the words to creep out of my mouth, fearful, hopeful, and hiding my inner lightning-fast calculations. I'm no Vigilant of Stendarr, but that Order and my own often see overlap in our duties (particularly with regards to vampires). More than that, none of the other Orders of the Eight have militant arms quite like ours—the 'seek out and eradicate' kind—so we tend to have a soft spot, so to speak, for one another.

Normally, I would pass the word that this was happening and let them take care of it, since they're much better equipped to do so.

However, this situation calls for a little thought—and I can't wait for the Vigilants to send someone. It took me a day and part of a second to reach Markarth from Headquarters. Their headquarters is in the Pale; it takes at least two days to traverse the way between the Hall of Vigilants on the Order's Watchtower—and that's at a good pace without bad weather or hazards of the road. That's without the time it would take to mobilize a response. About a week, at best, then.

Too long. If these creatures are allowed to slither back into their holes because they suspect double dealings we may lose them altogether. And if that happens, who knows how many others could become corrupted by them, though the power of suggestion, if nothing else?

It's surprising how susceptible people can be.

"I am Eola," she said gently, squeezing my arm in friendly fashion. "And I can help you."

"How?" I forced myself to meet her eyes, hoping none of my strike-to-kill intent showed in my face. I shouldn't do this alone, but sometimes you don't have much choice. It would still take two days to get back to Headquarters…and there's no guarantee that my trip would go unnoticed.

"Our lady has a place for us, where we may go to sate our appetites without judgment."

It's a good thing I didn't strike her down earlier—patience is a virtue for those who would hunt others. "…without judgment?" Social restrictions are always strong…at first. Especially if an addiction is being introduced.

"Yes—a place known as Reachcliff Cave."

"But—this body…the Halls? The Brother said…"

Eola snorted. "What does _he_ know? _Nothing_! He can keep his old bones and leathery sinew; they make for a poor feast." She grimaced, the firelight making it a horrible expression. I could just imagine a piece of gristle belonging to someone's Aunt Ingrid stuck in her back teeth. "No, we were forced out. The dead have stirred from their slumber."

A two-fold problem, then. Some would call this a lucky chance, that the dead should expose another threat. Still, my stomach clenched: one does not dally in Daedric business lightly. Does she know who I am? Does she know who I serve? Or did she play this same game for the dead mercenary and meet with resistance?

"I saw strength when you entered, felt it when you sealed the door." She did not remark upon its uniqueness, did not mention perceptions of the spell itself. I don't think she's…sensitive…to such things. "You will meet me outside this city and we will go. We will fight out way to Namira's embrace together—and when our work is done, the pleasures of the table will lie before us."

I ignored the joke, found it highly inappropriate.

"I know you're leery. But I _promise_, this will all work out. You'll see," she assured me again.

As long as my eyes stay firmly in my skull once we're done. I have need of them, and I'm quite partial to them on account of their color. Finally, with feigned effort, "I'll meet you there. But…this corpse? And you? How am I to get you out unnoticed?"

Eola snorted, got to her feet and adjusted her clothes. "I can get out, never you fear. You may tell that fool monk that his dead are safe from nighttime nibbling." She chuckled darkly, "We have bigger plans. Bigger plans and sweeter meats, my dear…?"

"Bellona," I filled in, apparently resigned to a horrible secret having been discovered…but equally apparently relieved that the worst of it was out in the open. Like the time I had to confess to spilling juice all over one of Sister Helga's books. Accident or not, I knew she'd be furious…and she _was_!

…by the College's magic fungi! I hope she doesn't expect me to have a bit of this poor fellow before I go! My stomach quavered, as much with disgust as with nerves. I refuse to eat the flesh of my fellow beings—those capable of reason—and if she insists I'll just have to kill her and forego finding any cabals of cannibals myself. Oh, I'll put the word out, but I doubt we'll find anything.

And not finding them would make it hard to sleep at night, even if I weren't attached to the matter.

"Bellona. And I'm sure you can explain this," she motioned to the corpse, "away. Can't you?"

I took a deep breath, pointed my staff at the corpse and sucked air. The air in my lungs turned hot, prickling the lining, stripping away the moisture in mouth and throat. I exhaled as if spraying water. The air chapped my lips as it passed, the spell twofold: the hot exhalation stripped the body of its moisture. The flames that followed, at the flourish of a hand, immolated the corpse and destroyed all evidence of its having been chewed upon.

It also destroyed the mercenary's identity, allowing me to make up a new one for him. For now.

My, my, it does seem odd that a member of one of the Eight's Orders should lie so much. I worried about it, when I came to the Resters at seventeen, but I've stopped since then.

"I can explain this away," I assured her, "Where will I find you, once I've left?"

"You needn't worry," Eola soothed, "Merely follow the road out of Markarth. I'll meet up with you, and we'll begin our work."

I nodded, cast one more look at the corpse, then strode off. It took some effort to reorient myself as to where I was (and where the exit was), but I managed. Normally I'd leave 'thumbtacks' on the wall—little mage-marks that usually show only to the caster. In this case, though, it would have simply made things faster. The Halls of the Dead all follow the same general logic in their layouts; the only major difference is the size.

The spell holding the door remained, predictably, intact and undisturbed. It took me a few moments to disassemble it but, being of my own casting, it came down easily. No complications.

Brother Verulus, pacing with his hands clutched to his chest in an attitude of prayer, jumped as the door to the Halls of the Dead opened. "You-you're alive! And well! Praise Arkay!" Which he immediately did, while I added the appropriate responses as needed.

He didn't even notice. Not the most observing of men, this brother.

"I—did you find…the other fellow? Or the source of the, er, unpleasantness?" he asked, wringing his hands and looking queasy at the thought of some body-eating _thing_ running amok among the honored dead. The honored dead in _his_ charge.

"Where are my cloak and gloves? It's drafty." The excuse gave me a few moments in which to finalize, in my mind, how I wanted to do this. I sniffed, took back my cloak and gloves from him and put them on. "The presence you perceived was actually that mercenary's cohort. He must have slipped in quietly sometime before the Halls were closed, with the intention of stripping the dead." The brother paused, as if trying to remember anyone particularly strage amongst what had, once, been a normal flow of people. In Skyrim, the Halls of the Dead see much use, not just for storing bodies but also for…other reasons.

One of the older Resters—and I don't know if he was joking—had a story that he and his girl used to sneak kisses down there while their parents were doing properly respectful things. I usually thought he was being honest, because the rosy remembrance never failed, when it ended, to chase the smile away from his face.

I don't think the girl still lives.

"He desecrated the bodies in hopes you would do what you did: call for help," I continued briskly, "His cohort arrived in a timely manner and, as you saw, never came out. You behaved as predicted: you sealed them in with the treasures of the dead. At some point they turned on one another—I found a body, charred to ruin. The other fellow took to flight when I scared him up. There must be another way out of the Halls, though I didn't find it. I intend to give chase, however, with your blessing…?"

"Oh, yes! Indeed you must!" Brother Verulus, for all his horror at these brazen accusations—which sounded a little too probable—seemed relieved that someone intended to run the matter down. For the sake of justice. Or, and he'll think it only if he's cynical, the mercenary employed to deal with the matter doesn't expect to be paid until she can hand over a culprit.

Cynical or charitable, Brother Verulus did not detain me, merely exhorted me to try to bring the man back alive. For the offender's own sake.

I said I'd try, but with the air of one unused to handling live bounties. You do what you can, I suppose, but my Order does not specialize in filling prisons. Most of what we find people doing…they're quite aware of the situation and have their faculties of logic and reason. Rehabilitation—something many of the clerical orders are fond of—is generally not something that presents itself as an option. We see a lot of 'fight to the death' rather than face capture (and a complete setback in questionable work).

As far as these cannibals, Namira's cabal…

To be completely honest, I don't relish doing this, especially by myself. Unfortunately it seems that Eola will babysit me most of the way. My preference would be to call in the Vigilants, but I'll just have to live without my preference; they can come look at the leftovers, see if anything interesting exists, anything that an untrained eye might miss.

I sighed heavily. There have always been those who like to rub shoulders with Daedra, who use them to justify their personal vices.

Not to say that all Daedra are 'bad'—though as a servant of Arkay I'd rather not deal with one unless it's absolutely necessary. For instance, Meridia (Prince of Vibrant Energies, the Bringer of Light to Dark Places) has called upon our Order to do her work repeatedly (though she, at least, has the courtesy not to let us know we're serving as her unwitting lackeys until we can't do a blasted thing about it). Azura, too, is considered 'benign'—but, again, since we _are_ an arm of the Order of the Eight Divines, the less friendly business we have to do with Daedra the better.

It's just policy. The Vigilants take an even stronger stance, understandably, than we do.

All that said, though…this business is quite clear. Sooner or later someone is going to get hurt—someone who isn't connected to the matter already.

And, because I see the danger, I'm honor-bound to respond to it. Can't have cannibals killing people by the roadside. Daedra tend to attract sick, twisted followers and, in many ways, it is truest when said of Namira.

I _wish_ I could get the Vigilants out here to clean up this mess.

-B-

Eola met me, as promised, once I'd passed the Markarth Stables. Having traveled from Falkreath I'd come mounted. However, Eola was not, so I used Flaxen's reins as a leading rope and walked him with us. He did not like the smell of Eola—being human, my nose misses a great deal I'm sure—but did not disobey the pull on his reins.

From the stables, we started heading southeast. It took us about three hours or so—maybe more—to reach the place she called 'Reachcliff Cave.' The place was off the road and somewhat hidden from it, which is to be expected, as it's a Daedric cult's meeting ground. Feasting hall. Whatever.

Eola was only communicative by turns, which I found comforting: less chitchat means fewer details to keep track of, fewer opportunities for me to betray myself. Only one point she was willing to describe at length: the creatures that had forced her (and her companions—though she did not volunteer information about them) out of the cavern. Feasting hall.

It boiled down to 'something woke the draugr up.' No rhyme, no reason, they just woke up one day. Draugr are not the worst undead one can encounter, but what what she described sounded particularly nasty.

I mentioned before that draugr can sometimes make use of Thu'um, the Shout. We tend to call these 'Deathlords,' since they're rare and unusually powerful. That isn't to say they're the _only_ variety of draugr to use Thu'um—they're just the nastiest variety and I like to prepare for the worst. I couldn't pry much more out of Eola on the matter, not wanting to arouse suspicions best left quiet. But I did want to know what had been done differently than before. The fact that a Deathlord remained quiet and sleeping since this cabal began using this particular cave system, only to wake up _recently _means something…changed. Or is changing.

I'll put it in my report. Maybe it's a fluke.

Or maybe someone did something they shouldn't have and Eola either doesn't know or doesn't want to say.

Nervous prickles crept up my spine at the thought of what I might find down there, in the dark of the earth.

I always get nerves like this; they usually go away once I've gotten ten or fifteen feet into a barrow (or what have you). It's good to have a healthy respect for the things against which one does battle.

I knew a fellow who didn't, and he ended up with a skeever—of all things—chewing on his arm. It needed long and meticulous attention from a priest, because there was no 'quick way' back to the priest who'd accompanied us on our journey (but not into the ruins). Even with all that care, his arm was never quite right.

_Always_ respect the enemy.

And their many-toothed servants.


	3. Chapter 3

Special thanks to BioFan for beta-reading this chapter!

-B-

"_Resters don't bind the undead. If you hear such a claim, it means they shoved it into a small room and sealed the door. 'Binding' is an aspect of necromancy and, therefore, not within a Rester's purview. It would also be the mark of a novice Rester: who needs literal skeletons in a closet?"_

~"The Clergies' Arms: Arkay's Resters" by Erik the Traveler

Chapter Three

Arkay's Order of Resters is not a Tamriel-wide organization. Or, it is, it's but not as organized in all provinces as it is in Skyrim. Skyrim has its own...unique...difficulties that require the Order to maintain a steady presence.

Aside from Necromancy (which benefits from the many empty, unfrequented places in the wilds), Skyrim has a ridiculous number of undead that are, for want of a better phrase, 'naturally occurring.'

Let me be clear: there's nothing truly natural about 'undead.'

We call them draugr, and they infest almost any barrow, tomb, or ruin that was once inhabited by our ancestors. We're not even sure what makes them wake, though there's been much study on and even more debate about the subject. The only things that are really clear are these: they really _are_ dead_—_or should be—and they _aren't_ dependent on necromancers to wake them. Smarter than skeletons (but much less so than higher forms of undead), they retain some of the powers they had in life and much of their former strength, despite their wasted bodies. They don't have many tactics to speak of, but some of them possess _Thu'um_: the Shout.

And they can use it to devastating effect.

I came across one—while part of a group—that could use _Thu'um_ to knock the weapons clear out of your hands. It had flunkies, too, that could shout you back several paces, staggering you, softening you up for a more conventional attack.

That trip could have gone badly.

I hate fighting draugr: they give off an amazing amount of _dust_, and I am _highly_ allergic to draugr dust. Get enough of that foulness on me and I break out in hives. Hives the size of _peas_. A smart Rester (which I happen to be) will wear long sleeves, gloves, and even a head covering to protect her from such…irritants. As well as inducing allergies in me, draugr dust has been known to cause malaises and contagions. Nothing life-threatening, usually, but a weak Rester…it's better not to get sick if you have to travel far or alone.

Or if you have to deal with a cabal of cannibals afterwards.

I glanced over at Eola, who stopped short of the entrance to the cavern. There was nothing there to indicate what kind of perverse feasting went on within. "Here. Here we are. The undead must be cleared from Namira's sanctuary," she announced, her tone low.

"I understand. Are you coming with me?" It took effort to tear my eyes away from the unwelcoming dark maw. If Namira decides to intervene personally, I'm in trouble. Maybe she won't be actively guiding her minion, here. Or maybe it's all moot, and the cabal will turn on me when I've done their dirty work in order to silence me.

Actually, that last bit sounds the most likely.

One thing at a time.

"Would you like me to?" Eola asked. She frowned impatiently, as if I should infer from her need of muscle that she was not particularly martial herself. Of course, there was the matter of the dead mercenary, but he was ill-equipped. Blunt objects aren't that good for fighting draugr (like swords aren't much use against skeletons—that's when the staff comes in handy).

"…no. No, perhaps not—the way looks narrow and I have a preference for spellwork." This seemed to be the right answer.

"I'll follow quietly. And carefully," she added grimly.

"As you like. Don't get swarmed." With this rather grim advice, I set off into the cavern.

Before I'd gone ten paces, the smell of death and rot hit me with almost physical force, thick and nauseating. It was definitely a smell to remember.

The nasty ones usually are.

First things first: I retrieved the suspending rig for my staff, which I buckled onto the weapon, then slipped around my shoulders, so the weapon hung at a steep angle—one that would not impede my ability to get through doors. One should never use this rig if one expects to need the weapon it holds on short notice, but I hate leaving my weapons lying around unattended, or in the care of someone I don't know.

Like Eola.

Next, I reached into my belt, pulled out a balaclava from within one of the pouches and tugged it on. It muffled the smell somewhat and, more importantly, protected my face from any draugr dust that might cause me difficulties. From another pouch, I drew a curious rig of leather straps, glass, and delicate buckles that, though ridiculous in appearance, protects the eyes _most_ effectively.

Except when the lenses fog.

I waved a hand before my eyes, blinked as they stung, the blue wash of a _nighteye_ spell swept across my field of vision. I drew my sword with my right hand and flexed my left. The sword is more to fend things off than to actively engage them; my penchant _is _for spellwork, after all.

It may have seemed strange for me to be so well-prepared for going into a cavern if I'm posing as 'just a mercenary.' However, mercenaries—even bandit parties—specialize for whatever they prefer to hunt, and in that regard, my preparations wouldn't seem extraordinary. No one explores dungeons and catacombs in Skyrim—if they expect to come out alive—without being carefully equipped for the trip. Weight of numbers often doesn't matter—there are usually more of _them_ than of _you_.

Several Resters, come to think of it, used to belong to mercenary groups and brought little innovations with them when they joined us.

The dank cave gave way to a forgotten tangle of burial grounds, none of which hinted at why the draugr just woke up one day. Then again, I don't know how long the coven has been here, nibbling on unfortunate travelers (I can only assume the victims were travelers).

I met my first draugr within fifty yards of the entrance. Like many of its kind, it remained in its place until something came shuffling into its domain. There's a theory that draugr retain more sense of self than some undead—though less than fully manifested ghosts. Scholars argue that draugr stay in their coffins or on their shelves because they're re-enacting the same sleep/wake patterns they knew in life.

It's just a theory. You have a lot of those when dealing with the undead. Personally, I argue that draugr have nothing better to do than nap until something worth investigating comes along.

I had enough warning when the thing got up—maybe it sensed my life, maybe it heard my shuffling footsteps. _Nighteye_ makes traveling in dark places easier, but it can, paradoxically, make patches of shadow even more impenetrable; stumbling around is inevitable if you work in dark places.

The word-sounds for a fireball echoed against the stone, the hot mass forming around my left hand. I threw it, a sweeping motion that sent the orb arcing to the left, swinging wide of the draugr.

The thing hissed at me as the fireball sailed past it, then Shouted.

The Shout staggered me, but not enough to break the connection with my spell or my sword. I made a wrenching motion and brought the flaming mass back around, towards me, to slam forcefully into the draugr in a shower of sparks and little tongues of fire.

It cried out, flapping its arms as the fire spread.

The undead have a habit of being _very_ flammable, and setting something on fire is most efficacious when the victim can't use their hands to slap it out.

Freeing one of the vials on my bandolier, I cast it at the draugr's feet while the burning thing flailed and groaned, then flicked a walnut-sized spark at the dark fluid that had spattered the ground.

The draugr, having stamped about in the potion, screamed again, this time hopping as the flammable liquid caught my spark. It shuffled, then pranced, trying to quell the flames devouring its back and the more pernicious ones licking at its legs and feet.

I raised both hands, took a deep breath, and took a moment to compose myself. Warmth, scratchy but reassuring, pooled behind my breastbone, then followed my will to pass into, then through, my sword. The heat slid away from me, drawn towards the draugr as a current of warm air, heat turning to flame that finally engulfed the creature altogether.

I dropped to one knee, raised a ward to keep the thing from throwing itself at me, and waited.

The draugr flailed and danced, shuffled and flung itself from side to side against the walls, then collapsed, its body too ruined to maintain its semblance of life.

The School of Destruction has always come easily to me. That's how my aunt and uncle knew to send me to the Order of Julianos–I set the barn on fire (an interestingly widespread occurrence with mage-children). Their leaving me there was the last I ever saw of them. Nords are particularly distrustful of magicka and consequently, while recognizing its benefits, are wary of those who have it.

Some mages, specialists in the School of Destruction, might argue that I should have invoked some sheet-of-flame variant to overpower the draugr, burning it to cinders within seconds. That's well and good, but it can also be wasteful; it's unwise to spend one's resources extravagantly when there's no need. The power needed to cast the three spells (excluding the ward) didn't match what I would have needed for a more complex casting. The actual casting was also quicker, and the overall effect benefited by the flammable accelerant I used. All magicka has a price; it can tax your ability to maintain the effect, there can be funny side-effects, or at words your spell can get away from you. Best to be careful unless you're sure you're up against something really nasty.

And this draugr, as far as its kind goes, wasn't. I'm reminded of what a baker told me, once, when I asked, 'How do you know when enough is 'enough?' He said, 'I do this for a living: I just know.' Same thing here: I just know what's 'enough' with regards to magical firepower.

It's a point of pride.

Besides, I still think there's a Deathlord in here, somewhere. I'll save any fancy overkill for _that_.

And keep my sword at the ready.

The moist, smelly passages sprawled further and further until I lost track of time and distance (not unusual when you're underground). Anyone who goes into a barrow, cave system, or 'abandoned' grave site knows to leave marks to help them get back out again. That was one of the things Resters are taught early on. In my case, the instructors a group of us to a large ruin (carefully kept clear for training purposes). They blindfolded us, led deep into the place, and left us to find our own way out.

What they didn't tell us was that 'getting out' _wasn't _actually the point of the lesson—they sealed the entrance and the exit. We wandered around for hours, only realizing that the entrance wasn't there when we finally thought to begin marking the walls with little magicka or chalk signs. We call them 'thumbtacks' since a press with a thumb and the correct spell is all that's needed. The lesson, the real lesson, had to do with methodology, reinforcing order and logic even when lost in the dark.

Needless to say, the lesson that had the necessary impact.

At least they gave us a morale-boosting dinner when we got home.

I prefer to use marks visible only to myself, usually at about rib-height, partly because it takes less energy to keep the marks private than to make them public. Additionally, anything tracking my progress won't have conclusive proof of which way I went, should it fall far enough behind.

Now, an accomplished mage might be able to perceive the faint hint of magicka, but if one such is trying to follow me (as opposed to actively stalking me) they won't be paying that much attention.

Am I a subtle person? I don't think so; not really. But I take pride in my craft. If I were of a more scholarly bent, I'd be at the College doing research with the assistance of their very upscale apparatuses. Obviously I'm not scholarly, so I 'play' with spellwork in my spare time.

After some distance (and several more draugr), the tunnels with their niches for the dead gave way to more carefully-constructed burial corridors, halls with four-way junctions, the niches now augmented by burial urns and old trophies arranged with the remains, a temptation to grave robbers.

Some Nords prefer cremation, rather than risk existing as draugr in future. It's usually warriors who like to be ashes at the end. As for me? Cremate me, take me to a high place where the wind blows strong and let my ashes follow that wind until it runs out of strength.

Let me fly, just once. I'm sure my soul would appreciate it (though not in the sense in which I'm used to appreciating things).

Finally, my long wanderings led me to a heavy iron door, shut fast, and menacing. The adornments that might have made it a work of art at one time were rendered dark by age...and it was the first of its like I'd seen in this barrow.

Raising a hand, I lay it across the metal. The door had, once, been bespelled, but the residue of that casting made little sense to me at first. I could tell that it was a form of restraint—a binding or a ward. After more consideration, I surmised that a newer, lesser spell was layered over the older, more powerful enchantment. The original spell was a binding—keeping something in—while the newer spell seemed to be a ward, something to keep people _out_.

Bindings and wards have a very specific feel to them. For those sensitive to such things, bindings seem to 'suck in' while wards seem to 'push out.'

Drawing a deep breath, I sheathed my sword, raised both hands, and called to mind the shorthand for _chameleon_, focusing on it, on its arcs and curves, watching them light up like a flame devouring a string. I brushed myself off vigorously remove any lingering draugr dust as I outlined for the spell what needed to partially vanish. I exhaled, letting the built-up spell slide down my body. Upon looking down, I saw only a ripple, a distortion in the air, that evinced where I stood.

An iron door with a restriction (or any kind) on it, in my experience, usually means I've found what I'm looking for. _Usually_.

In this case, I think one of the draugr tried to secure its stronghold; unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately for the living), the dead just aren't capable of the complexities of magicka. It tried, though; for the undead, even a minor ward is an accomplishment.

With the air of wiping slime off the door, I brushed the weak ward aside.

The door opened silently, but grudgingly, meaning the spell, while ineffective, hadn't completely lost its sense of purpose. It was easier to close than to open.

After casting about to see if anything nasty could have seen me and finding nothing, I decided I was safe enough for the moment.

I warded the door but did not bother to scrawl the shorthand warning on the floor. There's no need: Eola might have followed me, but she did it at distance, which was wise.

The iron door gave way to a great chamber, a feasting hall fit to hold an Imperial regiment of diners. The place reeked of death and decay, both of which grew stronger as I continued examining my surroundings. A massive stone table and benches dominated the center of the room on a slightly raised platform. Two draugr were clearly visible, sitting near the far end. Beyond them I could make out a kind of throne (and possibly a third draugr—the Deathlord, most likely), and at the end of the room, a grotesque rendition of Namira.

My skin crawled; a shrine that big did not crop up overnight. Namira's cabal has been here for quite some time if they've such a shrine established.

I reached back for the door, felt beneath my own sealing spells, but found no familiar hallmark. The original malfunctioning spell ran deep, however, suggesting a complex casting—perhaps a few Vigilants of Stendarr in some time past.

You'd think they'd have a record of where something like this was, so they could keep an eye on it.

With another shiver as I regarded the sinister figure of Namira, I took a deep breath, wishing for backup but prepared to go to it alone.

I gave my sword an experimental twirl, then cupped a hand beneath my mouth, lisping the spell that caused tiny, snowflake-like runes to drop into my palm. The icy crystalline shapes did not melt on my glove, but pulsed with a delicate, frosty glow. My lips numbed under the spell's spoken component, my back teeth aching.

With a deep breath I sent them wafting through the air, like feather-down, to land on the floor before me, ready to create a _very_ slippery patch. The undead tend to have trouble navigating unnaturally smooth sheets of ice.

So do a lot of living people, but particularly the undead.

My nerves tingled. One doesn't go into these situations without a healthy respect for the odds. "And the dead shall walk no more." It's part of the litany of the Resters: _and the dead shall walk no more_. The well-worn familiarity of the words brought me a sense of steadiness as I assumed a casting stance, sword in one hand, fingers crooked to take the best advantage of my one surprise attack.

I pursed my lips and gave a sharp whistle. Draugr always investigate strange noises; I maintain that I have the element of surprise until they identify me as human.

As I predicted, the two lieutenants rose from the table to investigate, leaving their lord to whatever he does when he's not occupied with intruders. They drew weapons—one a bow, one a monstrously large sword—and shuffled their way in my direction.

I don't like to exclusively focus on any one branch of Destruction magicka in combat—the side-effects get to me after a while, but if I rotate the branches (fire following ice, for instance) the negative effects are reduced, and accumulate more slowly.

Cold, hand-numbing cold, pooled in the hand wrapped around my sword, sending a sheen of frost along the blade. I had to work to keep my hand steady. As soon as the bowman was within throwing distance, I swiped my sword in his direction, flinging the spell at him. It struck him in the chest and one shoulder, freezing his arm solid at the joint. He might be able to shuffle around, but until he frees that shoulder his bow is useless.

When fighting presumably powerful draugr (or fighting draugr in quantity), all you can do is immobilize as many as possible, then neutralize the rest before the ones you immobilized work their way free. They almost always do.

The sword-wielding draugr would have been on me like a skeever on cheese were it not for the frost runes on the floor. He stepped on one, and a cold mist rose, slowing his pace. His progress was checked as he looked down to find out what this nonsense was.

Lightning spells are…well, _funny_…and, for me, the hardest to control. Lightning has a mind of its own, as we like to say, so it takes a little skill and some wits to use it reliably. I warded myself against the icy spell—which is mindless of the allegiance of anyone within its area-of-effect, and crossed with less difficulty than I might otherwise have had into the mist.

The draugr gurgled in his throat, laughing at me, I thought. I swung my sword at it, my smaller blade glancing off its bigger, slower one. The trick is the keep the draugr on the defense, to bait it into a contest of strength—which I did, noting out of the corner of my eye that the Deathlord was watching with some interest (such as the undead have it) and the bowman was working his way free (by ramming his shoulder against a wall to crack the icy shell).

The draugr's sword ground against mine with terrible force, but the tenuous bridge of metal-on-metal contact was all I needed.

Sparks flew from my mouth, tingling in my lips, frizzing the ends of my hair, before coursing down the chain of my armor, flying out of my fingertips, into my sword. The spell flashed from blade to blade, turning vicious and violent as it jumped away from me to sear my target with many sizzling tongues.

The draugr tried to pull away, but lighting was already crisping it, paralyzing muscles, stripping it of what little moisture remained to the creature. It shrieked—a shrill, terrified sound—and tried again to pull away, then to let go of its sword, seeking to free itself from the uncompromising assault.

It was too late; I half-closed my eyes, focusing on the power within, letting it grow, welling up, until the feeling of near-invincibility set in.

The draugr hit the ground, charred and ruined, its sword fused to mine (for the moment). It took a swift kick to snap the draugr's spell-brittled blade, but the tide of magical power was up, ready for the bowman.

An icy blast slowed him, bringing on the Deathlord's shout of displeasure. That slowing was all I needed. I moved closer, closer, expending power until I could see visible frost build-up on the draugr lieutenant. Darting forward, I grabbed it by the bow—which it refused to let go of—and twisted, tugged, shuffled around until the draugr overbalanced…and shattered on the floor.

The Deathlord was almost upon me, and I couldn't move fast enough to dodge his Shout.

It flung me across the room, slamming me into the back wall, leaving me half stunned. With my concentration broken, the drain of pulling so much magical potential into actualization left me sweaty, a little shaky, and aware of mutinous hunger pangs.

Like a cart going downhill, it's easy to keep up speed once you get going.

For me, it takes extra effort to invoke a spell from the School of Illusion without a verbal component or gesture, but I did so now: _invisibility_.

Not merely _chameleon_, but true invisibility—and as a spell of the Illusion school, I find it very difficult to hold. Nevertheless, it let me grab my sword and roll out of the Deathlord's reach, as the thing took a moment to look around, as though to ask, 'where did she go?'

Draugr, being dead, are not overly bright, even if they can be powerful. They're slow to react to the unexpected.

Lucky me.

I hurried behind a pillar, dropped the spell and forced myself to take a few calming breaths and—most importantly—to _think_, to re-marshal my forces.

I flexed a hand, visualized the Deathlord, then stepped out of cover. The motion to begin the spell was awkward, since it really needed two hands. Nevertheless, the telekinetic _pull_ worked, dragging the thing to the ground before me (kneeling and still facing the wrong way). With a shout and tremendous effort, I brought my sword whistling through the air, severing the Deathlord's head from its shoulders.

It collapsed in a heap, leaving me to drag myself over to the raised platform upon which the feasting table stood.

I pulled my goggles and balaclava off, ran my hand through my sweaty hair, leaning on my sword for support. I've been overdrawn before, and this isn't it. This is just…eh, I pant after running, this happens after intensive spellwork. After a moment of making sure my unwilling intimacy with the back wall (and the drop afterwards) hadn't broken anything, I got stiffly to my feet, dispelled the runes the draugr hadn't activated, and unsealed the door.

I love my job. Except when doing it hurts.


	4. Chapter 4

Beta-read by BioFan.

-B-

_Author: There are many who would argue that maybe we _shouldn't_ anger the Daedra._

_Vigilant Peyton: Aw, what's life without a little adventure?_

_Author: Long._

_Vigilant Peyton: And boring._

~Excerpt from Mirabelle Grace's 'Views of the Vigilant'

Chapter Four

I was glad to have a bit of a ride back to Markarth, because I needed to think very hard and without distraction. Eola and I did not travel together, this time, because our 'preparations' were very different and (wisely) she didn't think we should be seen together.

I quite agreed. As I'd hoped, Eola wanted me to 'meet the family' (as it were) now that Namira's sanctuary was free from the draugr. What I hadn't counted on was being given the dubious honor of procuring the main course.

Brother Verulus. 'A monk made soft by easy living.'

Ironic, but in a way unimaginative and predictable. Petty, even, but Daedra often are, so it makes sense that their followers adhere to their example.

Truly, either someone watching has a perverse sense of humor, or it's a kill-or-be-killed (and eaten) situation. I have no intention of getting Brother Verulus killed. I have no intention of being eaten, either, so I need the time to do some serious thinking and decide how best to balance what I don't want with what my duty clearly indicates must be done.

On top of that, I ached in every joint of my poor, abused body, and felt badly bruised from that Deathlord's Shout. It's sad when the undead preserve something like that when it's almost lost to Men.

Well, 'Men or Mer' I suppose I should say. I don't favor one over the other and I'm not really political, as these things go.

…though I have to admit that I find the Aldmeri Dominion and their inquisitors exceptionally distasteful. _Particularly_ the inquisitors.

But, as I said, my concerns are limited in scope, and it's unlikely that my Order—or any of the Eight Divines' Orders and arms of those Orders—will be dragged into the civil war. The undead don't pick sides; they're truly indiscriminate.

I chewed on the idea—if I can even use the expression in good taste…

…huh. That's not working so well for me, is it?

I... ah... _considered _my options (that's better phrasing) carefully as my horse trotted along the main roads.

The best idea that comes to mind is to bring Brother Verulus to the coven and then destroy the coven itself. The question is whether to _tell_ him he's being used as bait. My belief is that if these cannibals sense anything wrong, sense that he knows he's walking into a trap, they'll fall upon us both and he'll end up dead anyway.

Meanwhile, if I _don't_ tell him, he might end up underfoot or…something. He didn't impress me as being well-acquainted with the sword, mace, or axe.

Also, people do…unwise…things when they panic.

And then there's moral question of whether it's ethical to risk his life like this, without telling him _why _in advance.

I shoved that question aside. Cannibals don't usually confine themselves to main dishes that are already dead. A traveler here, an 'undesirable' there…who knows how many people have died or will die before this coven is stopped, if I don't do it now?

And if I'm too slow, if they smell treachery or see me backing out…then I become too dangerous to live.

Looks like keeping the good Brother blind is the only way. I'll have to put up with the inevitable recriminations once all is said and done.

I don't like to think of my work in terms of 'if.'

-B-

I've said I have a distaste for the School of Illusion. However, if I turned my back on the study of alchemy just because some people choose to create 'love' potions (which have nothing to do with love), I would be a fool. I may not like some of the uses of a thing, but I don't overlook the value of a school of study as a whole.

As was once said to me: 'Bellona, _abusus non tollit usum_;abuse does not preclude proper use.'

I disapprove of charm spells, as a rule, but not so much that I can't use one if the situation demands it—and why I, an experienced adventuress (or so Brother Verulus thought I was) would need his help when I already cleaned up one mess he couldn't…

…well, persuading him or bribing him wouldn't work. He'd know something was afoot and that would make things awkward, sooner or later.

I told him that I'd come across a cavern infested with filthy undead—as he is a priest of Arkay, this would gain sympathy to my cause—and that I thought there were more than I wanted to face unprepared. So I asked him to bless me, in Arkay's name, that my mission might succeed and I might have an edge over my dusty, musty foes (though not in so many pretty words).

He obliged, clearly worried about the mass of undead I kept referencing. He blessed me, however, and let me take his hand as I thanked him. And, as I did so, I let a gentle charm spell pass between us. The spell moved easily, since I'd removed my gloves, and was _just_ enough that, when I expressed the wish that he might come with me—to patch me up, if nothing else, since my cause was righteous—he agreed that it was probably a good idea.

I should note: the spell was not strong enough to make him do anything he wouldn't normally. In this case, it was enough to loosen his reservations and allow the inclination to do something about these undead to have enough free rein to bring about action. In that way, I made a compromise with my conscience.

-B-

Brother Verulus and I arrived late the next day at Reachcliff Cave. We came mounted, but Brother Verulus wasn't much of a rider. I sincerely hoped, as I tethered our horses to a tree near the cave system, that this would be the last trip I would need to make to this disgusting hole.

It was easy to lure Brother Verulus down into the caves. I asked him to wait for me, then went in a few yards, shouted back: 'Brother, someone has been here! Come and see!'

Which he did.

From that point on, we explored cautiously, carefully, coming across the draugr I'd decimated the day before. As we grew closer to the sanctuary, the corpses stopped, probably having been removed by Namira's followers. I suppose even they have certain standards of cleanliness, despite their patroness' sphere of influence.

Draugr tend to disintegrate quickly, as these had, leaving mostly stinking rotted flesh and fragments of dusty bone. And, again, their dust, when inhaled, can cause illness.

From the way Brother Verulus stopped to examine them, I formed the opinion that he had never been much of a field man. Or maybe I'm so used to things like draugr that I've become numb to their mystique.

If I can call it that.

Namira's sanctuary was full—a full half dozen people—chatting quietly. Eola had assured me she would be ready before I was. I'd spent the night in Markarth, since the trip to and back from Reachcliff Cave took a good six hours. I'd also had to travel slowly on the way back, since the brother of Arkay was unused to long journeys and horseback, so it wasn't surprising that they'd assembled before I did.

They probably had shortcuts, too, memorized from traveling to many such meetings.

The large table was spread with food (of the normal sort) and drinks ranging from wine to mead, lit with candles, and, all in all, would have been appealing if it weren't for the fact that I had the main course in tow.

"…was about to eat my _servant_," a woman was saying to general amusement, her voice high and coquettish.

"And how would you make that go away? You're not _that_ influential," but the remark was met with more laughter and chiding agreement.

"Blame it on the Forsworn, naturally," the original speaker responded, with dark humor.

The whole gathering laughed uproariously at this.

That…that's just disgusting…and indescribably macabre.

I had to give Brother Verulus a push to get him to continue forward. Well, I thought grimly, if he didn't know something was up earlier, he'd know it, now. Upon my arrival, the coven fell silent and got to their feet, peering at my cohort and me.

"Wha-what is all this?" Brother Verulus demanded, his quavering voice betraying his fear. He tried to back up, but stepped into my blocking presence.

Eola, smiling with an evil gleam in her eyes, walked up to him, pressed his hand in the most affable manner. "Priest of Arkay, I am your friend."

I flexed my hands as Brother Verulus looked from Eola to the others and back. I have to make this quick.

"…my friend…?" his voice took on a disconnected quality—a charm spell, judging by the way Eola led him by the arm. He resisted at first, then slowly ceased to do so, shuffling in her wake as though thoroughly weary.

Eola's progress would, if it continued, bring him to the shrine at the end of the room. A quick inspection revealed that it was also the method for dispensing death, an over-glorified butcher's block.

"Yes, and I've invited you to dinner," Eola continued, her stone still sweet and purring.

She was halfway up the room, all attention fixed firmly on her as she led the unwitting calf to the slaughter.

I took a deep breath, offered a brief prayer commending their souls into the hands of the Eight and asking pardon for myself.

They may be cannibals, but one should never let the taking of a life become casual, lest one risk life in general becoming cheap. That _is _something they teach in the Order: do what is necessary, but do not become careless or cavalier when 'necessary' involves the deaths of the living.

Heat built up behind my breastbone, warming the backs of my eyes, seeming to melt the wax in my ears, drying the tissues of my mouth and bringing on a deadly thirst as the powerful spell began to leech the moisture from my body.

It took effort to hold the spell and walk at the same time—I managed it only by focusing on the shorthand for it, drawing and re-drawing in my mind every arc, curve and coil of the symbol. A symbol outlined in _fire_.

"What the—what are you doing?!"

The voice seemed so far away, coming to me across distance and a raging inferno. The sensation of smelling smoke, of hearing the crackle of flames as they consumed everything in sight, marked the point at which I lost contact with the world around me.

I shouted the word that released the spell, a sound that was half-panic. The threat of immolation by this kind of spell is very, _very_ real. That's why a mage will only use this sort of spell in a desperate circumstance.

And, to me, not getting Brother Verulus killed qualifies this situation as 'desperate circumstance.'

Or, as I've been told, perhaps I like pushing my limits a little too much, using 'desperate circumstances' as justification.

The spell leapt from me in a joyous bound, magicka ripping free of the constraints my body provided, manifesting as flame as it hit the air, blasting away from me, stripping me of strength, of moisture, of body warmth. My temperature plummeted several degrees, leaving me shivering; my skin grew dry and, around my mouth and hands, began to peel as if with a sunburn; blisters appeared on the backs of my hands then ruptured, coating the damaged flesh in sticky, clear tears of lymph.

Through all this I had to keep focus, or the spell would get away from me; if it did, it could kill us all, myself included. But I have an affinity for destructive magicka, and I maintained the casting until the power running through me, that used my body as a conduit and a translator that forced something that existed ephemerally to become something concrete, finally cut off.

The flow of magicka ceased so abruptly that the world pitched. The room was too dark for my flame-blinded eyes, and sounds seemed small, hard to pick out. I staggered into the table, the stone grinding painfully against my hip. I need to pull together, I couldn't get Eola in the blast, because of the range and Brother Verulus' presence, so she's still out there.

I squinted, heard Brother Verulus' voice, indistinct, but sharp with warning.

I moved slowly, clumsily, but my vision had begun to clear. Eola knew when to run, but she'd never run from a Rester. It was hard to shove aside the descending fatigue and give chase. The words 'wait here!' barked (or, rather, slurred) at Brother Verulus took effort.

And at the rate I was running, she would get away.

I waved a hand, unsure if I had the magicka available for another spell.

Thankfully, nothing powerful was needful; the playful breeze (which did not seem to have enough power to fully manifest) indicated the arrival of my conjured helper. Usually it's in the form of an unnaturally large housecat, but, again, it didn't seem to have enough power to take on true form. "Go! Slow her down!" I pointed in the direction Eola had gone, and my familiar wafted after her.

I say 'wafted' but what it did was much faster than the word might suggest. Now, it won't be able to stop Eola, being a low-level summoning, but it'll be _something_.

It worked. Up ahead, Eola yelped, and the sounds of crashing became cleared as my ears began to work more normally.

My conjured familiar did exactly what I needed it to: it slowed her down, then, sensing a momentary weakness in its prey, forced itself into the quasi-corporeal form of a fully-conjured familiar. It raked its claws across the back of one thigh; then, with a hiss, the spell broke, returning my familiar to whatever ethereal realm from whence it spawns. It was gone when I arrived, but Eola was in no condition to run, not with her hamstrings so neatly severed.

It didn't take long to finish her off.

Sweating and weary, I hiked the body into a rescue carry and turned my steps back to the coven's cavern.

-B-

Brother Verulus took my instruction to 'wait here' seriously. He sat in the hall leading away from the feasting chamber, pale and shaky—though not as much as I was.

My energy wasn't returning quickly, just in a slow trickle, and the chase coupled with bringing Eola's body back, nearly had me undone.

"I—what—who—" Brother Verulus stammered, caught between fear and anger.

"Inside." I didn't want Eola's body anywhere it could easily be found. People might suspect murder, a crime in which she was the innocent victim rather than a cold-blooded perpetrator. Leaving the body here…well, by the time anyone comes down here again, I hope, she won't be recognizable.

Then it won't matter: people will see a corpse, see the shrine, and watchfulness for strange behaviors will increase. _If_ they even find this place. You almost have to be looking for it—or for _something_—to stumble across it.

I flopped Eola down before the shrine, gave it a distasteful glance, then sat down at the table, bent almost double as my headache increased in intensity. "Stop shouting," I groaned at Brother Verulus. "I can hear you just fine."

From my bandolier, I pulled two hard-baked biscuits, handed one to Brother Verulus, and gnawed on the other myself before spitting the nibble out and reaching for my canteen. I forgot how dehydrated I was. It could take me hoursbefore I begin to feel like myself again.

Of all the schools of magicka—barring Necromancy—the School of Destruction has the spells _most _likely to go wrong, to get away from a caster and manifest more strongly than anticipated. It doesn't often happen to me, but I don't often need big spells.

But that many effects combined into one, with an uninvolved innocent in the room…it was necessary.

Though, perhaps, my superiors would have advocated that _this _was the time when smaller spells, something less…dramatic…were needed.

"Who _are_ you? _What_ are you?" Brother Verulus demanded as I sucked down the entire contents of my canteen and wished for more. I tried, but found that refilling the canteen by conjuring ice was beyond my abilities.

"I am one of Arkay's Resters," I answered slowly. He'll need to know; maybe he'll calm down. I fished beneath the neck of my clothes and pulled out a simple leather cord with a pale brown stone, worn smooth, with a hole bored in the top and an etching symbolizing Arkay. "I was sent to investigate your Halls of the Dead problem…and uncovered _this_." I waved vaguely to the room. "A sect of Namira's followers. Cannibals."

Brother Verulus looked around the room, shivering as he did so. He did not demand why I hadn't told him—about my affiliations or about the danger—he merely accepted that it _was_ necessary, whether he liked it or not.

I slipped the stone beneath my clothes again and put my head down on the table.

"Will you be able to travel like that?" he asked after a long few moments.

I think I might actually have fallen asleep, for he had to shake me by the shoulder before repeating the question. "I—yes. No…we'll go away from here," I forced myself to my feet, "and take it slowly." We rode, after all, and Flaxen is equally content to plod along as to race about like a maniac.

"Are you quite sure?" the brother pressed gently.

"Yes." My knees felt a bit wobbly, but my head _was_ a little clearer. Let me get a few hours of relative inaction and I'll be_ fine._


	5. Chapter 5

Beta-read by BioFan.

Chapter Five

_Anyway, like I was saying, get yourself some good armor and a nice big sword, and if you've got some stout men who won't run off at the first sign of trouble—in other words, not like one of them **- - - - - **_**cheap sell-swords**—_then go looking in caves and you'll find a _**__****- - - - - **challenge_ sooner or later._

A copy of _"_Chaurus Pie" found in Arkay's Watchtower, 'corrections' by an anonymous Rester

-B-

The Order's headquarters, formally called Arkay's Watchtower, is about an hour's walk west of Falkreath and built like a crown on a rocky uprising. You can actually see Falkreath from the actual 'tower' if it isn't foggy. The whole complex really does look a bit like a hat on an uneven head (building expansion in Skyrim can be a little tricky sometimes). Here, we live, train, perform various chores, and (occasionally) recuperate from our ventures.

Here, my magical ability was more accepted than it was by Skyrim's general population. In a way, the Order became my sanctuary, and I've grown comfortable here. The College of Mages in Winterhold seemed too much like a prison—a combination of its strict entry criteria and its horrible location. The College is basically a swathe of land around which the other land has fallen away, and it's called _Winter_hold for a reason.

Now, I may be able to trace my heritage back far enough to make even the the worst kind of Stormcloak happy, but I don't like dealing with the cold any more than I have to. No sensible person would. Luckily, Falkreath is in the southern part of the province.

Falkreath is, perhaps, best known for its massive graveyard and her citizenry's rather grim sense of humor. Almost every business in Falkreath has a morbid or macabre cant to its name: the 'Dead Man's Drink' inn, or 'Grave Concoctions' for the local alchemist's establishment. Personally, I laugh over them, but some of my peers find the humor a little _too_ morbid.

In Falkreath's defense, when one lives near one of the largest burial sites in Skyrim one needs a sense of humor. Otherwise one jumps at every creak from the roof timbers or wonders whether that light out there is a torchbug or a spirit of questionable intent.

Our headquarters complex is a vague spiral shape, built around the original Watchtower. Following the initial construction came the expanded dormitory, kitchens, armory, training room, a garden patch (the kitchen lets out onto it, though the other rooms wrap around), another dormitory…it goes on like that, each new segment serving an additional need for our growing chapter. We have our own well, bathhouse, library, apothecary (complete with indoor garden), and a room dedicated to more practical research on the subterranean level.

One of my seniors, Dane, actually studies the Dwemer machines and what he calls their 'technomancy' (though he always appends 'for want of a better descriptor'). Dane was a Rester for many years, but he's gotten old, old enough that he's more use as an instructor and researcher than a 'go out and clear that barrow' operative.

Now, I should also point out that you tend not to get too many undead in Dwemer ruins—mostly it's Falmer and Dwemer constructs in the deep places. Still, we find our way out there every so often. Young people will be young people, and since we aren't a monastic order, 'adventures' are still desirable.

That said, we tend not to go too deep; war games with Falmer aren't within our purview. They tend to stay in the deep reaches, so to get our exercise, we clear out skeever, or sometimes bandits or even touchy mercenaries (though we don't always _fight_ them, strictly speaking).

I won't lie: there _are_ factions among the other clerical orders—and even our own parent order—that believe we shouldn't be _looking_ for fights _at all_. What they don't know is that about a third of the time our incursions become rescue missions. We actually had four former bandits we pulled out of ruins last year take up monastic orders—and one kid on his first 'adventure' came with us.

He got left.

We picked him up.

My adventure with the cannibal coven was of some concern to our superiors (who are beginning to drop semi-serious hints that agents may not be allowed to go out alone in the future if we can't reduce the amount of trouble we find). Word was sent to the Hall of the Vigilant as soon as I'd made my report to Brother Killian, and I was released to return to my normal duties.

The day after my return found me working in the herbarium—the indoor garden adjacent to the alchemist's workroom. I'm not much of an alchemist, but chores like weeding the various gardens are regularly slated; for those with magical ability, such as myself, the chores include making sure the spells, charms, protections, and enhancements stay strong.

I don't _mind_ working in the gardens—it tends to be quiet, and sometimes quiet is good—but I'd go crazy if that were all I had to do.

In this case, though, the time in the herbarium was a good thing. My first night back was marked by a nightmare, the sort that wakes you in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, to find your friends standing around you, wanting to know if you're unwell enough for help to be brought.

I don't have nightmares often, though when have I darkly ambiguous nightmares—like last night—bad things usually follow. Not visions, not premonitions just...well. If it happens, I know to expect something bad.

The first time it happened, I was a child—I dreamed something amorphous and ugly. The next day I was left at the Temple of Julianos. (That turned out to be a good thing, but at the time it was horrible.)

The first time I was nearly killed came after one of those strange nightmares—on _that_ occasion I dreamed of something evil and old, intriguing and repulsive. That near-death experience was all about necromancers and my first encounter with them.

In this case, I dreamed of a dark shadow, truly massive in size, that seemed to steal the very air in my lungs. There were no details, just the lingering sense of vague fear.

"Bellona?"

I looked up from my musings, found our newest initiate, Erik (formerly called 'Skeever'), looking at me with big, hopeful eyes. Seventeen years old and without a place in the world for nearly all of them, he's the one we rescued from that ruin I mentioned. He'd fallen in with his former 'friends' partly because of his ability to use magic, partly because (and we surmised this on our own) his friends figured they might need someone who couldn't run as fast as they could, just in case things went badly.

His magical ability, being widely untrained, is unreliable, and tends to grow more so if he's distressed or angry. So he often ends up sharing chores with at least one of us, the more magically-inclined agents. We can do damage control and—he loves this in particular—give him small 'lessons.' Dierdre is, on the whole, a better teacher for him—she has more patience than...a rock—but he likes the cant my studies have taken better than hers.

I won't lie: I get frustrated with him, sometimes—usually his 'why can't I do it?' too hard on himself line of thought when _he _gets frustrated—and once either of us gets frustrated there's no point continuing.

It's the red hair. My best friend Shayla says so...though usually she says it _just_ when I'm trying my best to keep a civil tongue in my head.

Anyway, my failings as an instructor aside, Erik is a good kid, _much _too sweet considering the life he's led up to this point. He's not one who would use his abilities to dominate others, to destroy others solely for his own advancement. He's too afraid of his own powers.

'But that,' Deidre says, 'can be overcome, given time.' See? Patient like a stone.

"Bellona?" Erik repeated.

"Yes?" I looked up, forced myself to abandon my ruminations, to take in his dark skin, close-cropped dark hair, and his oddly pale eyes, grey like a bright, overcast sky. Hammerfell runs somewhere in his blood, tempering Skyrim's harsher angles and giving him the potential to be very handsome when he grows up.

"I've been working on that thing you showed me," he offered, as usual tentative when indicating he'd like a lesson.

I sat back on my heels, glancing at the row of snowberry bushes I'd been tending to make sure I hadn't missed anything near them, then checked Erik's work. Seeing it done well (and quicker than I'd done mine), I nodded to him. "Show me," I encouraged.

He glanced at me, then lifted his hands, pushing his brown sleeves up to his elbows. They immediately slipped back down to his wrists, but after a moment he succeeded in folding the habit-like swathes of fabric back. He took a deep breath (and ended up with his cheeks puffed out like a mutinous child). Magicka shivered around him, a hesitant aura. The hallmark that identified it as being his was less of a sensation than a perception: his aura seemed to crowd me, as if my own control and ability could rub off on his.

Of course, this is all highly subjective and sometimes different people perceive different things from another mage's aura: Deirdre, our so-called restoration expert, says his aura feels 'like a little rabbit.' But, if you ask me, tame rabbits still crowd.

Everyone sensitive to such things swears that Deirdre's aura is yellow and tangy, like citrons.

Me? I'm usually told my aura burns, peppery or hot (when Matteo isn't saying less flattering, but funnier, things).

Erik's aura fluxed as he wrenched the spell into the shape he wanted. For a moment his skin seemed to change, taking on a woody aspect, tinged with green. The aspect vanished, leaving him looking almost normal: the only difference was that the veins around his eyes and on his hands stood out oddly, like veins on a plant, his hair stiffened a bit, like soft but dry grasses, and his eyes turned mossy green. He smiled hopefully at me, holding out his hand.

I took it, examined the flesh, then tapped his arm with my spade. The blade bounced on impact in a way it would not have done if it had hit true flesh. _Oakflesh_, and a good casting. Normally, you'd see an oak-like bark on the caster's skin. In Erik's case, the 'bark' covering was rendered the same color as his own flesh. This is the product of two spells: the actual _oakflesh_ and an Illusion spell that reduces the appearance of the 'bark' covering to something less noticeable. It's less practical and more discipline.

And if there's one thing that Erik is good at, it's anything from the School of Illusion that lets him hide from the world.

"Good," I declared, "_very_ good. And you look so cute all mossy and tousle-headed." I cuffed his shoulder gently. I'll admit: I wanted to tousle his hair, but as cute-like-a-puppy as he is...I really do know better.

Erik, looking ridiculously pleased with himself, began unravelling the spells. "It's still hard. _Oakflesh,_ I mean."

"It _will_ be. But you haven't incinerated yourself or anything else," I pointed out. This was something I heard often when I was young (though with a dash more sarcasm than I would use in this context). "It's not a crime to dislike fireballs and ice storms. In your case, I'd rather have you able to ward yourself against harm first and foremost."

Erik nodded, the odd coloration in his skin and eyes fading slowly. "I'd like to try the summoning again. Can you call..._her_?" he asked hesitantly, as if some part of his mind expected me to snap at him.

I took a moment to check that the assigned task was finished. It was, so I got to my feet, "I will, but not here. Robert would kill us both if we had familiars trampling his herbarium." I dusted off the skirts of my habit. We may not be a true monastic order, but we do tend to wear the habits while at home. I think the sage minds among the seniors make us do it so we don't forget we're _not_ like the Companions.

I can't say much on that point: I've had ancestors who joined the Companions.

Erik and I went to the training room. Several of the others, of varying ages, were practicing alone or with one another. We picked a corner, out of the way, but with space to work. With an easy, practiced draw, I called my familiar into being. She manifested fully, flicking her tail as she seemed to slink out of the mist that eventually comprised her full form. She sat down, tail around her feet, the tip of it twitching as she looked at me.

I nodded to Erik and she directed her attention to him.

Communicating with a familiar can be done verbally, but when there's a strong bond between the summoner and the summoned there's a certain...understanding...that flows between them. It's not 'mind-reading' more...sharing of intention.

My preference is to talk, but sometimes...

Erik smiled hesitantly at her, took a deep breath, then closed his eyes.

I reached over, ran my hand through the mist of my familiar's back. She's not solid except when she interacts with the world. Touching her, therefore, felt like running my hand through a cool mist, only my skin didn't get wet. She turned, stretched out on the floor—and when I say stretched I mean _stretched_—with her chin on my knee and her hind foot pressing against Erik's.

A small puff of mist appeared at Erik's other knee, faintly green in color. For a moment I thought I saw something semi-cohesive, but it vanished.

Erik began to sweat as he struggled to bring his familiar into full manifestation. He finally dropped the spell, pale, sweaty, and irritated with himself.

"You do a little better each time you try," I pointed out, "and the conjuring of creatures involves some of the most intensive castings you'll perform. Especially if you want to, say, bind a Daedra or an atronach."

"So what am I doing _wrong_?" he demanded irritably, biting his lip.

I think he's trying too hard, but how do you tell someone that without making them even more frustrated? "Familiars are friendly guardians. You don't have to use a clearly-defined spell to keep them in lock step. They come to you because they like the…the feel of you, I suppose. If you grab at a creature's tail, they won't want to come to you. But if you're gentle and let them sniff your hand—so to speak—they're more likely to come have a look at you."

Erik considered this, drawing up his knees and slouching against the wall. "I want to be good at this."

"Good at what, exactly?" I made the question as soft as I could. Erik is one of those people who takes the word 'this' and uses it to mean 'everything.' He can't break it down into manageable goals unless explicitly required to do so.

Erik scowled at me, but considered. "I want to be a good Rester."

"And you will be." He cares too much what happens to his friends, his comrades, to be anything else. "Look how much effort you've put into it already. You're the sort of Rester who brings his brothers and sisters home safely. Not glorified draugr fodder like some of us."

Most people think that being the damage-dealing frontline is _the_ job to have in work like ours, the place of most honor, of highest visibility.

To be honest, more often than not it means you're the one most likely to get hurt or killed. You're the first to take a resurgence of resistance, the last one out of a situation. You have to rely on the unseen support of your peers, to trust blindly that they have your back with shielding spells, resistance charms, things like that.

I didn't know that when I started; I know it now, though.

"Bella-Bella-Bellona!" Shayla, who came into the order at about the same time I did, came bounding up, eyes bright, cheeks pink with excitement. "We're planning an excursion! So, do you want in?" She ground to a halt when my familiar hissed warningly at her. Shayla gave the cat and I a withering look. "Call kitty-boo off, Bellona, I'm not impressed."

I chuckled at this, stroked my familiar's head once, then nodded.

The cat slithered around me, all affronted dignity, dissipating into mist as she vanished behind my back.

"Show off," Shayla grunted, though whether she meant my familiar's exit or my wordless communications it was hard to tell. Strangely for someone coming from High Rock, Shayla hasn't got a drop of magicka in her blood. That said, coming from High Rock, she has less of an aversion to it than most Nords. She ran her hand through her black hair, cut almost unfashionably short—but it's a style that suits her admirably. When she first got here she used to joke that she did it to get away from all her suitors—she just wasn't ready to take the plunge and reject all possibility of some strapping blah blah blah.

I swear she keeps unsuitable reading material _somewhere._ When she talks about 'ideals' it sounds suspiciously like someone else's words coming out of her mouth. Not that it's any of my business one way or the other.

I got to my feet. "Where to?" Is this a pleasure outing—where we don't really expect to find much—or an actual investigation? Shayla has the unfortunate tendency towards the dramatic. I try to avoid obliging her search for reactions as often as possible. We try one other's patiences, but that's part of why we're friends.

Sisters are the same way, so I've been told.

"There's a ruin not too far from here. The folks at Half-Moon Mill sent a message to Falkreath: people out that way are seeing funny lights on the north side of Lake Ilinalta." Shayla was almost bouncing on the balls of her feet by this point.

Most people assume 'funny lights' are trouble when, most often, they aren't. Still, it's always worth investigating, just in case it's the one time in I-don't-know-how-many that the lights really are signs of a problem. "Sure. Why not?"

Shayla grinned, then cast Erik an assessing glance. She wasn't there when we pulled him out, so she only knows that he's the adorable little lost puppy we brought home one day. I don't know how _he _feels about that perspective, but that's the general view quite a few of us share. "Bring your apprentice. He can get his feet wet."

"Shayla..." I groaned, putting my head in my hand. On a lakeside excursion? 'Feet wet?' Really?

Erik, on the other hand, perked up immediately, his inability to successfully call a familiar banished from his mind by this new prospect. He turned to me, trying not to show his excitement, "I'd very much like to go," he said, trying to sound like a 'good Rester' and not one of the Companions.

"So you're going," I answered simply.

"We're still clearing the details up. Killian doesn't want to let us go," Shayla grimaced.

I grimaced, too. Brother Killian is...old enough to appreciate the virtue of caution.

He also believes in applying a little resistance to an idea in order to test the resolution of the ones who came up with it. Otherwise he'd have young Resters traipsing aimlessly all around the countryside, out of reach and inaccessible should they be needed for something serious.

"I'll be ready when you are. And I'll make sure Erik is ready, too," I assured her.

Shayla grinned, but it was tempered with concern. "Maybe some fresh air'll air out your dreams. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of waking up in the middle of the night to you imitating a drowning woman."

I conjured a smile for her. "Maybe so."

I should point out that she's one of the few who wake up when I'm having minor nightmares. Shayla is a ridiculously light sleeper and I don't think there's a one of us who shares a dormitory with her who hasn't complained about this trait.

She's right, though: a little fresh air (well, prelude to the dank air of possible warrens of undead) always clears the head.

-B-

*The actual location for Arkay's Watchtower actually belongs to the Falkreath Watchtower (marker 8.24 on the Skyrim map poster).


	6. Chapter 6

Beta-read by BioFan.

Chapter Six

'And the skeletons they danced the dance, danced the dance, danced the dance,

The skeletons were danced to bits, they were battered on the stone.

Magicka made them dance the dance, dance the dance, dance the dance

Magicka danced them all to bits, within that keep of stone.'

~Drinking Song "The Skeletons of Markarth" (Arkay's Resters)

-B-

Lake Ilinalta has some very picturesque views. It also has a curious feature up at the northern edge: a fortress of a building, formerly held by Imperial forces, toppled into the lake one day, the foundations having given way beneath it. Now, all one can see of it are parts of the towers and chunks of broken stonework, slabs of roofing, that sort of thing.

The building's major bulk sunk, cockeyed, deep into the muddy lakebed. No one really knows why. Some say there was a 'bubble' of air underneath the keep that, somehow or other, was breached, and the exhalation of air caused the ruins to sink down to fill the newly emptied void. Still others say it was a cave whose stone became unsound and collapsed in on itself (with the same effect of 'sinking' the fort).

No one knows and, frankly, I don't see how it's relevant. The point is that it's close to Headquarters and, being so close, it's never been a problem spot. Resters aren't usually prone to superstitions about cursed ruins or evil legacies; we fight the real thing often enough that until we know it's real, we don't get worked up.

Can't blame normal folk, though.

That was why we brought lunch in big, overstuffed baskets, though we left those picnic baskets on the shore before Deirdre, Matteo, Erik and I water-walked out to the largest above-ground feature—one of the towers still attached to a roof segment—to locate an entrance. Many stone keeps and forts—especially those of bygone days and most especially those of Imperial construction—follow a certain similarity in their organization. In this case, there should be a door or something close to the tower.

The trapdoor was remarkably well-placed, as soon as one stepped onto the major piece of wreckage, there it was. We didn't get much time to study it, though. The instant her lightly-booted foot hit the stonework, Deirdre suddenly sucked air and staggered back so hastily that she tripped right into the lake.

With a yelp, she tripped over something else, and landed waist-deep in the water, eliciting calls of 'Deirdre?' from the shore.

"I'm fine!" she yelled back, though her expression was pale, her dark eyes large in her pointed face. "This place is an _abomination_," she snarled, picking herself up out of the muddied water and grabbing the offending obstacle. With a heave, she wrenched part of a skeleton out of the water and onto the stone. Her pale brows furrowed as she put her hand flat on its skull. "There's evil here. And deep corruption." She looked from Matteo to me. "Duty is clear: it must be purged." At which point she realized she was still knee-deep in muddy water, and soaked trough. "Ugh."

Deirdre is our chapter's resident master of the Restoration school. As such, she tends to be very sensitive to the dead and Necromancy—to quote her, 'phenomena diametrically opposed to my sphere of influence.' If she says there're bad things in a building, there are. She's not often wrong about these things; the occasional skeleton or draugr might escape her notice, but the presence of three or more usually make her nervous enough for her to count as 'having sensed them.'

Matteo reached out a hand and helped pull her out of the oozing mud of the lakebed. It was kind of funny to watch, since Deirdre is a full head taller than Matteo. Deirdre is with us because battling the undead—and mending those who do so—is her calling. She was here when I arrived; she was here when Brother Killian or Dale arrived. As one of those Altmer who opposed the Dominion's invasion and the war they waged, it's best that she has a 'safe' place with us.

Skyrim is hostile to her—'understandably so,' she says, without rancor—on account of actions taken by the Thalmor and some of their supporters. The way she tells it, she was born here, in Skyrim, many, many years ago. For her it's home, whether others like it or not.

I always did admire her dignified sort of pride. I don't think I come off the same way when I try to be dignified and impassive.

Deirdre stepped onto the stonework with the air of one treading in slime, then motioned to her clothes. Water rose from the fabric in a hiss, leaving it mud-stained but dry.

But, as the saying goes, for every solid rock, there's a measure full of loose gravel. "Stay to the back," I murmured to Erik, "remember what I told you."

"About being the backline?" he asked, his adorable face contorting into despondent acceptance.

"About bringing your comrades home," I returned coolly, as Matteo and Deirdre signaled the others to abandon lunch and get out here. _They _had to wade in the conventional manner, splashing and grunting as the ooze clung to their boots, making the way more difficult.

"What did you find?" Shayla asked, running a hand through her hair and looking around as if for a signboard indicating 'Bad things this way!'

"This place has fallen; it must be cleansed," Deirdre answered, her tone losing some of the stark, ringing tones of the truly dedicated and a little dramatic. "The corruption runs deep." She glanced at our party of nine—apart from the four of us on the rock, Shayla, S'Renji, Lisette, Wulf and his brother Connor.

Everyone waited, attention bent on her as she debated whether we needed more Resters or if the eight of us, all within the late springs or summers of our lives, would be sufficient. When you've been in this business as long as she has, you tend to know, like a how a baker knows how much flour is 'enough', whether you brought enough hands for the job. "We shall be enough, I think, if we do not separate."

Deirdre is nothing if not cautious. She knelt beside the skeleton which, while she waited for the others to arrive, she'd laid out properly. She felt at it, its ribcage, its skull—she actually took the skull and looked at the inside—its wrists and ankles. The fact that so many of the little bones were still in place, that it was so intact despite having been floating in the lake and being tripped over by an Altmer, meant magicka was involved. "This is a badly-animated thing," she announced, putting the skull down and sitting back on her heels. "An apprentice's work."

No one ever asked, but some of us wonder if she doesn't know some of these things, if she doesn't specialize in Restoration, for a reason.

"And fresh. I believe we have practicing necromancers," she declared, stepping away from the skeleton. She spoke a sharp imperative and immolated the skeleton, leaving only ash and burnt stone, her hallmark as bright and citrusy as it ever was, not a hint of anything dark or disgusting.

This is where a Rester's duty becomes complicated, since Necromancy _isn't_ illegal. But it's wholly profane and rarely are its practitioners up to any good.

"We'll do our duty," Shayla said sternly.

We all looked at one another, and, with one voice, spoke the words that serve as a component of so many of Arkay's devotionals, hymns, prayers, and chants: "_That the dead may walk no more_."

"Matteo, Bellona, up front. Erik, with Deirdre in the back," Shayla commanded, her tone less bleak and more businesslike.

"Bet it's cold and chill," S'Renji mused, his ears flicking as he sniffed the air.

I knelt by the trapdoor, put a hand on the sun-warmed stone, and felt out the aura below, attempting to perceive whatever magicka use is down there.

There. It's faint, deep, but evil. It must be powerful.

"Can you feel it?" Matteo asked, following suit.

"Yes. Can you?" I watched his tanned face, freckled across the cheeks, currently knit into a scowl of concentration, his ice-blue hair falling into his face.

He considered for a moment, his green eyes staring unfixedly into space. "No—ah, yes. Weak or just deep, do you think?"

"Did you see how pale Deirdre turned when she felt it?" I asked by way of an answer.

Matteo nodded, glanced at Erik, who stood nearby, looking nervous. "Strange that this should be in use this close to Headquarters."

"Most people don't know Headquarters is there," I responded. It's true. Falkreath is isolated by locality and…aura, I suppose. Most people don't come to visit and, if they do, they stay close to the town or known landmarks.

Matteo shrugged. "Still, it's odd."

I disagree, but I tend to disagree with Matteo on principle. It's not that we don't like each other, we just…well, what can I say? We just agree to disagree on a great many subjects; it's the only way we really communicate.

His penchant for turning his hair strange colors every few weeks or so, for instance. That green last month…

The silence gave way to a brief round of paper-stone-shears (which I 'won,' meaning I go first).

No one urged us to hurry up. Shayla, as the mission leader, may call the shots, but the person who goes in first decides when and how to do it. Everyone else just has to wait—but, as we're all friendly, no one wants to get a friend killed by rushing them to get into an unknown, uncharted ruin.

One of the drawbacks of being a frontline mage is that you get to go into the dark, nasty unknown places _first_. That's one of the things no one is fond of: going into the creepy, dank dungeon-type places first when there's no clear idea of what's down there. The eight of us clustered near the tower, atop which a hatch awaited, covering the entrance which lead into the complex.

Headwraps were donned, goggles situated, weapons checked, gloves pulled snugly into place. I adjusted the fall of my light mail, then stepped up to the hatch as Matteo pulled it open. He frowned, the pupils of his eyes turning pink as he leaned close to the stonework. "I don't see anything alive directly below us. Be careful, though."

"Right." A tiny magelight descended before me, illuminating the dark space, then the room below. Nothing attacked the light or came to investigate, so I stepped onto the ladder—a sturdy thing, not in the least corroded or rotted—and climbed down into the vault below.

The vault was cold, clammy, and drowning in water, shin deep at the bottom of the ladder. More water rushed in from the lake, pouring in waterfalls. Straight ahead was all the proof _I _needed that this nest of Necromancers needed to be fished out: a skeleton, charmed so all the bones would stay in place, hung suspended by its wrists from a pole, a knapsack resting at its feet.

It was a clear warning to anyone who came in: _turn back now_.

"I knew it," Deirdre said quietly, spotting the skeleton. She walked over to it, touched its head, brushed its breastbone. "Also fresh, and it's a warning. Do we agree that we need no further proof?"

Well, if _Deirdre_ is saying 'let's go kill some Necromancers', she's not likely to meet much resistance from us.

So we all voiced our agreement. Arkay's Resters are big on consensus, or, failing that, will act on a decisive split when it comes to majority rulings. It tempers the choices of hotheads or the overcautious.

"Gyah! You crazy Nords! The lair is drowning!" S'Renji protested, jerking his foot out of the water as he clung to the ladder.

"It's half-sunk," Matteo answered, as though he couldn't understand how the Khajiit missed this fact—and the likelihood that the interior of the ruin would be full of water to some degree.

I had to smirk: S'Renji is the type to grouse loudly about the little discomforts involved with adventures, but he never mentions the big ones. When I first met him, he annoyed me to to end with his constant bellyaching; it took time—and a pointed remark from a senior Rester—for me to realize he wasn't just a whiny little hanger-on.

"And _cold_! This one _strenuously_ objects to these Necromancer's choice of lair!" With a sniff, he dropped lightly to the ground, shuddering and grumbling. S'Renji is not shy about his opinions.

The instant S'Renji, reached the bottom, Matteo climbed back up the ladder—grumbling softly about Khajiit being the crazy ones—and warded the trapdoor so nothing could get out.

Let me rephrase: nothing without a Rester's talisman, one of the little brown stones with the depiction of Arkay we all wear. It doesn't do to seal your comrades into a place like this.

S'Renji's softly hissed deprecations of Nordic Necromancers and his yearning for the soft sands of Elsweyr tempered an otherwise creepy ambiance.

Magic was in the walls—old magic, though I'm not good enough to say exactly how old. A couple centuries, maybe? But this was a place that knew magic, once. Now that I was inside the building, I could feel, like anxiety, the corruption Deirdre cited, like the first creep of bad odor from rotted fruit.

Matteo followed, hopping the last few rungs and raising his hand to blast anything that might have finally come to investigate the magelight. Erik—barky-looking from a well-cast, undisguised _oakskin—_crowded close to Deirdre, who looked like a living ebony statue, staff in hand.

I shrugged my shoulders. Unlike many mages, I prefer something more corporeal than spell-armor, so I wear a light coat of mail. Matteo, on the other hand, compromises with spell protections and light armor. Many people assume that using magicka and wearing proper armor are mutually exclusive. This isn't so. Energy has to come from somewhere, and magicka does drain a person's resources; I like knowing that, if my magicka fails, I've at least got the steel rings between me and an attacker. Besides, if one wears it long enough, one strengthens enough that the weight of mail doesn't slow them up, much.

And most of the mages I know are either Arkay's Resters, serve in cushy court positions or hide in the College—and I don't think _they_ need to be particularly martial or physically strong, either, though I have only surmise for this conclusion.

"He was a fisherman," Deirdre announced, holding up a book she'd retrieved form the knapsack. It should have been ruined by the water, but apparently the knapsack was spelled to keep the water out. She read the last entry aloud, all of us listening grim-faced.

"Why'd he come down here, though?" Erik asked.

"Maybe he didn't choose to," S'Renji responded, stopping so abruptly mid-lament that Erik flinched. S'Renji has the gift of changing paragraphs without so much as drawing breath or pausing to show a change of line of thought. "Maybe he bumped into one of them while they were out. That makes them vicious."

"That's just conjecture," Shayla said. "The fact is that he's here, he's dead, and Necromancy was involved. We agreed that action is needed, we know what action is needed. Bellona, in your own good time."

"Erik, help me with him," Deirdre said gently, melting the locks that held the skeleton's wrists over its head. Between them, she and Erik moved the skeleton back to the driest place they could find. "We'll take him back to Falkreath. It's the least we can do," she said, putting the journal inside the ribcage. She did not ward the body, though S'Renji pulled his cloak off—chilly and damp through the air was—and laid it over the remains. He did not begrudge the act of kindness to a dead man, but promptly denounced the lack of subtlety in such a grisly display.

We fired the skeleton topside because it had no identity and because the water and the stonework separated perceptions of our magicka from whoever was down here. Without that buffer, we need to be more careful what kinds of spells we cast, until such time as stealth is no longer a concern.

I took a deep breath, stepped around the place the necromancers had hung their warning, trying to avoid as much of the waterfall curtaining the doorway to the next chamber as possible.

The water was cold, and the fact that it wasn't a solid sheet, which would soak me altogether in a matter of seconds, made it worse. There's something about being only _partly_ wet as opposed to _all the way_ wet that emphasizes cold.

I bore it silently, but was gratified to hear some of the others—S'Renji at the fore—hissing or cursing Lake Ilinalta's unwilling aid to the foulest kind of mages.

-B-

AN: And, in case I haven't said it before, special thanks to the UESP - particularly since they have nice, big lists of names/naming conventions for the various races.


	7. Chapter 7

Beta-red by BioFan.

Chapter Seven

'_Coincidence is the word used by those too short-lived to watch the patterns of history or the plans of the Divines and the Daedra unfold. True coincidence is very rare. Meddling…less so._' ~Anonymous

-B-

Ilinalta's Deep proved to be a dungeon. A prison. A place so full of corruption that Matteo and I both firmly agreed that every mage with an ounce of power should be immediately fetched from Headquarters to help purge the ruin, scorch the very stones.

Not that this would do anything, mind you, since we fired the corpses as we went to keep anyone we hadn't dealt with—yet—from using the bodies of his or her fallen comrades.

One of my early encounters with necromancers reinforced this practice: she was a particularly powerful one, and kept reanimating her fallen minions. It was a battle of will and grueling endurance. Never corner a Dunmer mage if you can help it. There are easier ways.

As far as this place, it's entirely likely there's a back way out of this Oblivion-hole, but I think we'll have caught the main body of these…people. I dislike _calling_ them people, but they remain, at their core, as mortal as anyone.

These were part of a fairly vicious cabal, masters and apprentices alike; it looked as though the head necromancer was running a school. Or maybe the presence of so many casters was, somehow, beneficial to him.

"This has to be the last of it!" Shayla called from where she bunkered down, unable to get any closer to the stairs leading, presumably, to the last level of the tower. Here, the last of the mages who hadn't run gathered, shoulder to shoulder, auras whipping about them as they dug their heels in.

"Bellona!" Matteo barked from his own cover—a shield held grimly aloft by Deirdre. "Fire from the left! On your mark!"

I took a deep breath, letting heat and fire build inside me, a spell similar to the one I'd used to dispatch the cultists in Namira's cavern. It didn't have to be quite as powerful since I'd have Matteo to back me, but it was still strong. "Mark!" I barked, just before the spell began to get away from me—no burned hands this time.

Suddenly I gasped. Matteo didn't coordinate an attack from his side of the room: he drenched me with a spray of ice that evaporated on the spot, sapping my spell and causing the biggest cloud of mist I'd ever seen in my life. A multitude of voices rose up in protest—theirs and ours alike.

Deirdre's voice rose and fell, her words and the pull of magicka telling me, plainly, that she was casting detect life on our un-gifted colleagues. I did the same, hastily, in time to see one of the necromancers approaching, dagger in hand. Casting spells when you can't see is risky, because you have to get in close once the combatants begin to mingle—otherwise you kill those on your own side.

The temperature began to drop, the mist hanging thick in the air, as I stepped forward, the skin to my elbows covered in an ebony skin that turned the blade of the necromancer's knife as I struck at it before clocking him upside the head. My sword finished him as he lay stunned upon the ground. When I looked up, lifelights mingled, circling and jockeying for position within Matteo's charmed mist.

"Bellona!" the voice belonged to Erik. Turning, I caught a blow from a staff. It struck, but not before I got my arm up to ease the blow. I staggered back, arm aching.

A burst of magicka, unusually strong and vibrant, came from the direction of Erik's voice. Then, the necromancer fell, inexplicably, with a scream; a second later, something dragged him back into the mist. Another flare of Erik's magicka and a screech from the necromancer—a screech suddenly cut off.

"Matteo! This was insane!" I shouted, drawing heat to me, feeling it vibrate through my body, the mist inching back away form me, falling to the ground in fat raindrops.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time!" Matteo protested, his voice labored but unrepentant. "Watch your back!"

Two necromancers appeared out of the mist, distinguishable by the silhouette they cast and their pink lifelights. With a growl, I sent a gout of fire racing for them, setting their robes afire, turning them into flaming targets for anyone near enough to attack. By now, most of the mages had switched to various flame spells, the ambient temperature of the ruin rising and forcing the mist to creep back, shrinking along the walls.

By the time the mist was purged, the necromancers were dead. Lisette and, oddly enough, Matteo had burns, which Deirdre immediately tended. Shayla's armor had a gash in the armguard, which was beginning to corrode. Her sword was broken at the hilt, also corroded.

"Damn them!" she snarled, tossing the weapon away.

"Shayla!" I tossed her my sword, unfastened my staff from its carrying rig. I've thought before that I should really have it bound, so I don't have to carry it…but my experiments with doing that didn't go well when I was younger and I have no reason to think my abilities with the School of Conjuration have gotten any better.

"Bellona! Look! I did it! I did it!" Erik crowed, once he was sure the danger had, for the moment, passed.

I turned, found two summoned familiars sitting at his feet. Frogs. Frogs whose heads were knee-high to him, gulping placidly. Two of them. "_Twoooo_!" he crowed, looking fondly down at their spectral green-blue shapes.

"That's _very_ good," I declared, with my best tone of encouragement. And it is. Who knew he'd be one to shine in a crisis? It seems to me that these…frogs…had something to do with that one necromancer's slip, fall, and final fate.

I wish they wouldn't _stare_ like that. It's...unnerving.

"No time for that!" Shayla panted, peeling her armguard off and letting it fall to the ground. Despite her efforts, the corrosion kept spreading; if she didn't abandon the article, it would probably spread to the rest of her armor. "Let's find this necromancer!"

When Shayla gets her nose down on a scent she's not one to give up on it, no matter how tired her mages are. I felt a little woozy, I'll admit, but not woozy enough to slow me down. A glance at Matteo garnered a silent nod of confirmation: he was good to continue as well. Sweaty, maybe; a little tired, surely; but ready to go nonetheless.

Not that one really has a choice in a situation like this.

-B-

Our necromancer turned out to be already dead. Or, rather, we supposed the skeleton in the large, regal chair to be our head necromancer, given the way his students defended him almost to the last and the way the room was warded to keep trespassers out.

Someone did _not_ want visitors, either because his body needed to be intact or because he was finishing some foul ritual. There were certainly chalk signs and black soul gems all over the room—those would need to be destroyed, but that would best be done at Headquarters. The dead can't be restored, but there are many as-yet unanswered questions about what happens to a soul-trapped creature—a creature with the powers of logic and reason—when the stone is simply _broken_.

So we have Resters—and members of the clerical order—who try to extract the soul so it can move on to the last leg to its journey. This is beyond my scope, so I have no idea how successful they are. Or if they're successful at all.

Lisette and Erik began the task of gathering any black soul gem they could see, all of which went into Erik's knapsack for transport. Many of the gems seemed to be full, an unfortunate thing that made me hope the Order has more luck with freeing souls than I usually expect.

Few people in the world deserve that fate (though I can think of some who do).

"Look at this," Deirdre remarked, pointing. Keeping a prudent distance, she indicated chalked marks on the floor, encircling the chair in which the skeleton in almost new black robes sat. They seemed inert, none of them glowing, but they seemed to describe a path or 'road' from the skeleton to—

"Oblivion's teeth!" Matteo hissed, with my own curses echoing his own.

"What is it?" Erik asked, looking away from his task to the object that had us all—well, we mages—so transfixed.

His frogs continued to guard his ankles, gulping and blinking in _the_ most unnerving fashion.

It was—and I emphasize 'was'—the artifact known as Azura's Star. The Star is _very_ distinctive in appearance, an item coveted by mages and adventurers alike for its unique properties. Soul gems are used as fuel for enchantments, since power _must_ come from somewhere. Mostly, soul gems are destroyed upon use; having imparted their contents the corporeal container disintegrates. The Star, however, doesn't suffer this limitation: any lower form of soul (in other words, any soul belonging to a creature without the powers of logic or reason) can be captured and used to fuel an enchantment…but the Star doesn't disintegrate, proof against the double transfer of power.

In every depiction of it I'd ever seen (and every account of it I'd ever heard or read), the Star is supposed to be all silver and crystal, pulsing brightly with a pink light when full, icy blue but still brilliant when empty. Now, though, it was an inky black, with several of the rays that give it a semi-star shape broken off, equally dead and dull.

Looking closer, I could see, along the edges of the Star's blackened silver ornaments, traces of pink light, murky and distorted. The aura of the Star, that which mages can sense, was a terrible miasma, which both drew and repulsed. It was like…the smell of rot trying to choke out the finest rose perfume. It was as if two auras warred over the item which had broken during the struggle.

The Star, however beautiful, is—as all Daedric Artifacts of power are—dangerous. Broken and corrupted, it's even more dangerous.

"That feels…strange…" Erik frowned, his tone becoming vaguely detached.

"Erik!" Deirdre barked as Erik's hand snaked towards the Star. She shot out a hand and grabbed Erik by the collar.

I noticed, as he reached out for the Star, that Matteo and I, too, had drawn nearer to it. Realization that we had made me aware that I, too, wanted to touch it.

Which was _ridiculously_ stupid.

I grabbed Matteo's wrist, even though he hadn't moved. There's an evil power in this Star, in it and on it. I don't like to think what would happen if anyone touched it casually. I don't think gloves would help, as they often do, when handling things like this.

"Who taught you to try to pick up a Daedric artifact that way?" Deirdre demanded, sounding more like Erik's mother than a teacher checking an overeager student. "Get away from there." She grabbed Erik's shoulder and pulled him back, but the way she held onto him spoke of fear for him rather than irritation or mistrust. Maybe he felt it, for he didn't give any hint of being irritated or chastened by her words or actions.

"It's been damaged," Matteo declared, not bothering to shake off my grip.

"Corrupted," I corrected. "We can't leave it here…but sure as the Deadlands are closed, I'm _not_ touching it."

"Nor I," Matteo agreed, straightening to examine the skeleton. "Overlooking the Star, for the moment, look at this skeleton."

I did so, stepping around the Star, careful not to disturbed the chalked signs surrounding the skeleton in its chair and the Star on the ground before it.

"Do you think he soul-trapped himself in there?" Deirdre asked. It's unlike her to sound so nervous. "That would explain the…shall we call it...'soul path' that the runes describe?" Matteo asked.

The chalked runes described—for those who can read and understand—an outside influence to a soul trap that would, if performed correctly, force the spell to work on the caster, and hold the spell together while, at the same time, dragging the soul into the Star. The soul path would be needed, since soul traps and things of that nature—barring those imbued into weapons—don't persist after death. You die and your spell dies with you.

Well, most of the time; the exception is that if your fire spell has hit a tree, or ice is all over the floor, any point at which magicka is no longer necessary to fuel the spell's effects then those effects will persist. That's the way it goes unless additional steps are taken to ensure the casting finishes independent of the caster.

The other exception is persistent magicka—which is what we mages call it—which is almost never seen in combat. Most wards, many bindings, enchantments on weapons or armor, those sorts of things encompass the more traditional persistent magicka. Again, not relevant to the situation, but certainly relevant to the topic.

"The clothes on out skeletal friend here are new, and the other mages in this foul place certainly didn't want us coming this far," I noted aloud as Matteo and I surveyed our skeletal 'friend.'

"No signs of damage to the skeleton, picked clean, held together magically," Matteo continued.

Suddenly, the Star at our feet let out a shiver of power and the skeleton fell apart, its bones suddenly and inexplicably no longer held in place by magicka. Matteo and I both danced back, power lapping around our feet like cold water.

The Star seemed to vibrate malevolently, the scent of roses fading until it was the barest whiff under the smell of rot. I shuddered; Matteo crinkled his nose.

"We should let the Vigilants look at this," I said, biting my lip, disliking the malevolent feel of the corrupted Star.

"Do you mage-types have any kind of consensus?" Shayla demanded.

As one, we all looked to Deirdre, deferring to her deep well of experience. "If we four put every possible ward and charm on it, each individually, alternating in many layers, I believe we could safely move it. Though I would recommend not handling it bare-handed or for long, if possible," Deirdre answered slowly. "We should summon the Vigilants. While we ward the Star, the rest of you should look and see if this…madman…kept any kind of journal, log, or record of what was happening to him. What he was hoping to accomplish or why."

Many mages are like that, prone to recording their studies and experiments for the sake of replication at a later date or as a list of 'what not to try again.'

The first thing was to dispel any magicka lingering in the chalked marks. We felt nothing, and when we removed them they seemed to be only chalk on the ground, their purpose fulfilled, the power fueling them spent.

Then came the long process of warding the Star. Layer upon layer, charm after charm, we worked until all four of us—Matteo, Erik, Deirdre and I—sweated like daytime travelers in Elsweyr. Add this effort to a vicious fight and I think we all felt more than a little tired; casting the protections took more strength than usual because they took more concentration than usual and, thus, needed more power.

"Deirdre, look," S'Renji declared, once Deirdre finished the final layers of protection.

I took off my knapsack, emptied it, turned it inside out, then grasped the Star, turning the knapsack right-side out and securing the Star within without having to actually touch it. Then, for good measure, Matteo and I began to ward the knapsack, too.

"His name was Malyn Varen," Deirdre's voice declared through my haze of concentration. "This says he was dying, slowly, of disease. He couldn't accept it, so he sought a way to cheat death."

Low sounds of disgust and 'that can't _possibly _end well' filled her pause.

"After many months he secured Azura's Star, he seemed to think that—" she stopped, though whether puzzled or appalled I couldn't tell through the buzz of magicka, and charms now resonating in harmony with one another.

"That what?" Shayla demanded, scowling now that this had become a very magicka-centric exercise. Shayla is not known for an abundance of patience.

"It's as Matteo and Bellona thought: he soul-trapped himself, or meant to do so…and claim the Star as his own Realm of Oblivion, a corner where he could reign as lord and master. Forever."

"He's delusional," Erik said. "He's delusional, isn't he?"

"Certainly. But it appears he may have been successful," Deirdre said. "Let me add another layer to your knapsack, Bellona."

She did so, taking it from me distractedly. It was proof of how skilled she was with magicka that she could cast such strong wards when her mind seemed only half there.

"Deirdre, are you all right?" S'Renji asked gently, blinking his big eyes slowly as he studied her.

"Yes," she answered simply, frowning at Malyn's diary. "It dissolves into rambling after that. Almost…almost as if he were slowly being driven mad."

Though why the madness set in—naturally, induced by his own foul craft, or, perhaps, inspired by a very displeased Daedric Prince at the perversion of her special toy—is debatable. It's also irrelevant.

"We should burn that," Matteo said darkly, "Force anyone else with the same _brilliant_ idea to start fresh."

"We should burn it _after_ we find out what the Vigilants want to do," Shayla interrupted. "I don't think they'll be too happy about a broken Daedric artifact like the Star, much less having to secure it. The journal may be instrumental in figuring out how to _fix_ it so it _can_ pass into their hands."

"_Their_ hands?" S'Renji demanded. "It deals with souls. It belongs with our Order. Send it to the Temple of the Divines in Solitude and let it rot in their archive." 

"These things never stay secure," Erik interrupted, unusual conviction in his tone, "_never_. If the Lady wants it back, she'll have it back. Better to _take_ it to her Shrine—wherever that may be—and let her deal with it, broken or not. At the very least—"

"No, we should let it be researched. You know the Order wants to find a way to make soul gems irrelevant," Lisette interrupted. Though non-magical, she's very much a bookworm when she's not on Order business.

"How could this have anything to do with that?" Matteo asked, frowning.

"How should _I _know? That's the point," Lisette responded.

"First things first!" Deirdre barked, stopping the rising-in-volume argument, "We need to bring it back to Headquarters." She turned her attention to Shayla, and handed Malyn's journal to her. As leader of our troupe, Shayla would be the one making the first report when we got home; she'd need to turn over Malyn's journal at that time.

Shayla took it, frowning. "We'll take the Star back home and secure it. I'm sure the Vigilants will be called in. Our superiors—and theirs—can decide how to approach it. We're none of us very high in the Order, so our counsel isn't likely to mean much." Though she cast an 'except you' look in Deirdre's direction…but Deirdre seemed unusually unobservant.

I wonder if she didn't have some contact with Azura's Star at one point…or if Malyn's research seemed familiar to her. There's no way of telling from the skeleton what manner of man or mer he was—though his name is suggestive. Maybe they knew one another in what we suspect are Deirdre's 'bad old days.' Or maybe it's one of those 'I had theories and someone acted on them' moments mages sometimes have.

"It's still cold, and this one's fur is still _damp_. If we must argue, cannot we do it in the sun?" S'Renji asked darkly, his penchant for complaints bringing with it a wise suggestion.


	8. Chapter 8

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Chapter Eight

'_Our work comes in gluts and lulls. The gluts are the hardest to cope with physically. The lulls are hardest to cope with mentally. But, given the choice, I'll take the gluts—nothing gets your mind off tired muscles like a draugr taking a swing at your head. With lulls, with waiting...there's only so much you can do and none of it feels really constructive._'

~Anonymous Rester

-B-

To say that the Order's administration was shocked that we brought Azura's Star back to headquarters was an understatement. To say that they were unnerved at seeing how the thing was corrupted was a bigger one. The entire upper echelon was in a rare tizzy: if the Star was corrupted into being a kind of reusable black soul gem, then that was a major catastrophe. If the Star ever got out…

They were in such a taking that they paid less attention to Malyn's proposed uses for the artifact than they might have otherwise. They'll get there, eventually.

It was also a topic of much discussion among us, the rank-and-file of the Order. Deirdre was adamant that the Star would, eventually, return from whence it came, but she didn't think it wise to let it persist here, in this state, a moment longer than was necessary.

Most of us agreed, though there were a few holdouts, mostly scholastics who were so far removed from the dangers a field agent faced that the subject of 'danger' was just another academic topic to them.

A rider was sent to the Hall of the Vigilant with a letter from Brother Killian that briefly described the situation. The Star, with our wards still in place, was secured Brother Killian's study, the cabinet in which it reposed warded and re-warded until it was doubtful anyone but Azura herself could get to the Star.

It took four days from the time our rider went out, until the time he returned with four of the Vigilants—Simeon, Simone (his sister), Yulia, and Connor. Simeon and Simone were junior Vigilants, as enthusiastic as my cadre of friends, though somewhat more…well, they were enthusiastic but less fun to be around.

They'd trade stories of exploits—theirs and those of others—as freely as we would, but they seemed to adhere a little more closely to the monastic life.

I asked Simone about this, early in our acquaintance (actually I asked if she could act a little less like a cow, and then I asked why she was such a grump anyway).

Her answer chastened me—even me—and bought her and her friends a great deal of leeway for their sometimes somber behavior.

We, the Resters, deal with the dead and things that should be dead. Disease, death, and contagions tend to be the norm for us, so of course we need ways to cope with it. We might say we're all right, she declared grimly, but without outlets we'd feel the effects of our work faster and more keenly.

Vigilants, however, deal with Daedra and Daedra worshipers. They might kill you, it's true, but the chances of being tempted away from the Order or being caught up in Daedric webs and plots are very high. The individual Vigilant isn't really important; everything revolves around the principle of a Daedric Prince being able to take a servant of the Eight and convert him (or her) to the service of that which he (or she) is sworn to fight. So they live a more monastic lifestyle in hopes that a sharper contrast to a Daedra-influenced lifestyle would make them more aware of any subtle temptations offered by 'the enemy.'

Or, maybe, they find the monastic lifestyle soothing compared to their work.

It didn't make much sense to me, either, but that was the explanation Simone gave. I think they're grimmer because they deal with more live men and mer than we do, and the living are more creative in their vices and cruelties than the dead tend to be. In the end, it doesn't really matter: we've grown accustomed to one another.

After the Vigilants arrived, all the members of the Ilinalta party were called in to give an account—start to finish—of our adventure in the sunken ruin. In fact, over the next three days, we were called in more than once, though not necessarily on the same day.

From what I understand, Erik was entirely too proud of his froggy-familiars. He certainly conjured them up at any possible moment after that first successful casting. There seemed to be a great many miscommunications when he tried to command them, but I began to think they were simply (and silently) reinforcing that they were here by choice and obeyed orders by choice. And only orders that suited them.

I hope they'll be a little more obliging in combat situations.

During this time of discussion and waiting, my nightmares started to get worse. I won't say it was because of the Star…but even I couldn't deny that the arrival of the Star coincided with the upswing in intensity. The dreams were a low level of 'bad,' but were persistent, which was what made them difficult. I also had less trouble remembering fragments—fragments, but not the totality.

Nine days later, when the Vigilants and the Resters didn't go into discussion at all—but scattered as if for private meditation and consideration—I made up my mind: if they haven't reached a decision on whose province this desecrated Star was, I'm going to steal it and—

The thought checked me, startled me, even. No, if they haven't reached a decision by tomorrow, I'm going to ask for deployment somewhere that isn't here. Somewhere away from the Star.

But the idea of stealing the Star and taking it back to Azura's Shrine, wherever that is, was tempting…

…but strange, since I know just how well-warded the thing is. That's one reason none of us—none of the mages who were with the Ilinalta party—have been allowed to leave the immediate vicinity of Headquarters and Falkreath. Since we cast the charms in the first place, it'll be easier to strip them away if we're here to do it.

-B-

Brother Killian, with his second-in-command, Brother Jeff, called me into his office on the thirteenth day of the Vigilants' stay with us. With him were Yulia and Connor, all looking very grim. The aura in the room stifled me, sapped my enthusiastic energy.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Sweat beaded on my face, cheeks burning. Simone, Simeon, and several of my set of Resters were playing ball in a nearby flat(ish) space when the summons came. I can imagine the others having come back to Headquarters, too, waiting for me to emerge with news.

I, myself, felt foreboding set in as four pairs of stern eyes frowned at me.

"Yes. Come in. Sit down," Brother Killian contrived to sound kindly enough that I knew I wasn't in trouble, but he didn't do anything to dispel my sense of impending 'bad.' He looked tired, the grey in his hair and the lines on his face somehow standing out more than usual. I never really thought of him as 'old,' just 'middle aged or a little past.' Now, though, he looked exhausted and ancient.

I obeyed, dabbing at my face with my habit's sleeve. Being this sweaty turned the cold seeming to settle in my guts into a nauseating sensation.

"We've decided that the Star cannot stay here," he began, "and our colleagues have decided that they are not equipped to hold it in its current state."

Something in my gut unclenched, only to be replaced by a knot elsewhere. This isn't going to be good…

'Impending bad,' just like I thought.

"The best that can be done is to return the Star to its mistress and let her sort it out. It's all we can do, as the necromancer did not detail the processes he used. This leaves us no hope of reversing the damage and making it safer to store."

Brother Killian's delivery of this information made sense, since the Vigilants wouldn't be happy about letting the Star out of their sight—so to speak. It showed on Yulia's and Connor's faces…but even Vigilants can see practicalities and this was a practicality of the first importance.

Daedric artifacts are inherently dangerous; I've never heard of one being corrupted by mortal hands and, I suspect, neither have the Vigilants. That would explain why they went even more purse-lipped than usual.

"I understand, sir," came my dutiful answer.

"The Vigilants return to their Hall in a few days. You will accompany them at that time, and from there will take the Star to its rightful place. Return as quickly as you can—I don't like you being mixed up in this business," Brother Killian concluded.

"If I may ask, why me?" This puzzled me, since I wasn't the one to discover the Star, and wasn't the first to note how strange it felt.

"Because," Yulia said darkly, "of all the mages in the party, you were the least affected by it. So the testimonies go. And I wouldn't want a non-mage moving something like this, even with the Case. It's better to send it with someone who can protect herself."

I found this logic odd, but no one seemed to think that my nightmares redoubling had anything to do with the Star. Or, maybe, they gave me _a_ reason among several. None of these people are under any obligation to give me the whole truth. I should be satisfied with even part of it, I suppose.

"I'll be ready when you are," I declared, giving my attention to Yulia and Connor.

"Good," Brother Killian answered. "You may go."

I got to my feet, tipped my head politely, then withdrew, leaving them to continue their conversation—or not—as they pleased.

I was right when I thought the others would be waiting for me to bring them news over what had happened. It turned out that Matteo, Deirdre, and Erik all seemed to think that I'd been the least affected by the Star—though Shayla alone thought that my disturbed dreams had something to do with 'that thing they've got locked up.'

-B-

'I'll be ready when you are' turned out to be another four days—though I honestly couldn't see why we had to wait. Maybe the Vigilants had other business to conduct; maybe the atmosphere here was better than at their Hall. Whatever the reason, it was enough for them, so it had to be enough for me.

My nightmares didn't get worse, but they didn't really get better—though I thought they seemed to be less 'bad' and more 'unnerving.' I'd never had so many nights in a row with these bad dreams, and it began to wear on me.

Brother Killian pulled me into his office during this period of endless waiting to discuss the matter. He was aware that I felt there was a correlation between bad dreams and bad occurrences in the waking world, and had been for a long time.

Not that there's much he can do, but I appreciated the thought. The fragments I could remember were few and small, like seeing the world as a lightning strike briefly illuminates it, making no sense and leaving me with no sense of continuity.

All I know, I finished, was that something _bad_ was going to happen. I'm not prescient, I'm not a Seeress, but I trust my guts and my guts all say 'bad things impending.'

I, like other Resters, am not superstitious; I just know what patterns have emerged in my life. Persistent bad dreams? Nothing good _ever _follows.

-B-

Finally, the Vigilants were ready to be off. We went mounted, with the hope that I would be back soon. The Star reposed in what the Vigilants called 'the Case,' a box of about my forearm's measure in both length and width, and about a hand's-breadth deep. The Case had so many wards and protections on it that even I felt somewhat reassured about carrying the Star—for it was my responsibility to do so, since everyone seemed to agree I was the best woman for the job of taking it back where it belonged.

It took us two days to reach the Hall of the Vigilant in the Pale: a small place, not as well-equipped as ours. Then again, the Vigilants have different concerns from ours. From the Hall, it took another long day of travel to get to Winterhold—the nearest place I could sleep and warm myself—before making the journey up Mt. Anthor's snowy, icy bulk, to where Azura's Shrine waited.


	9. Chapter 9

Beta-read by BioFan.

Chapter Nine

_Azura's Star: (Daedric Artifact 1/X) [Facing illustration]_

_Known for its surpassing beauty, Azura's Star functions as a soul gem, separated from the common sort by one special property: its ability to be reused. Unlike traditional soul gems, the physical casings of which are consumed upon use, the Star merely reverts to an inert form after releasing its contents. Because the Star lacks the ability to house the souls of those higher-level creatures (those beings defined by the first Conference of Scholars as 'creatures capable of logic and reason') it is considered by the Vigilants of Stendarr as being merely 'of interest' rather than 'a standing threat.' _

_[Scribble in the margin follows thus:] There is some debate among the scholarly circles, however, that just as a soul gem of the usual variety can be altered by a skilled necromancer, the Star itself might be similarly affected by a skilled necromancer acting in conjunction with or, as is preferable, by utilizing certain artifacts of one or more of the greater Daedra._

A Guide to Daedric Artifacts_, with anonymous annotations_

-B-

Snow blew thick and fast around the crown of Mt. Anthor, the wind whipping about and driving icy shards into exposed flesh without regard or mercy. The sky overhead swirled dark with the promise that the storm would not abate anytime soon.

Because of their patrons' notoriety, Daedra worshipers who want a single place to reverence their patron or patroness are forced to secure places off the beaten track (or–deservedly or undeservedly—risk lynch mobs should something, anything, go wrong). The crown of Mt. Anthor was _just _such a place, located somewhat south of the College of Mages, itself situated in the very minor hold of Winterhold.

Nevertheless, I trudged on, drawing my wraps tight and concentrating on the small spell that helped keep me warm.

From time to time, looking up, I could make out the faint suggestion of a statue—the Shrine for which I was searching. As if the blinding snow and treacherous ice underfoot weren't obstacles enough, the Case was unwieldy, and the hunting must have been bad, for wolves dogged my steps for the first third to half of the winding climb.

Finally, after hours of trudging and blasting wolves out of my path—only enough that they decided to find less able prey—I reached the summit. The Statue of Azura was, truly, a thing of beauty. Tall enough to be visible for some distance, she wore a crown of stone roses on her windblown hair, her loose robes draped regally across her form. In one hand she held the Star. Its appearance was curious, for ice seemed to have formed upon it in such a way that it seemed more crystal than stone. It glittered and sparkled uncannily, even though the sun remained hidden.

Shivers crept up my back that had nothing to do with the wind slicing through my wraps.

I'd heard it whispered before that the Shrine was a thing of beauty. Now, I believed it. The closer I got, the more details leapt out at me, tiny things that made the statue seem as if the woman it represented had suddenly turned to stone. Her robes billowed, her hair fluffed and rumpled as if in the wind, and the line of her body seemed to suggest that the press of icy air was something even she felt, that it was a force to be withstood.

Which was all creepy in the extreme, so I made my way up the icy stairs to the Shrine itself with more than a little trepidation.

At the plinth of the statue, I found a Dunmer, obviously wrapped in a spell of warmth, singing softly—to herself, or, maybe, to the statue. It was hard to tell what color her voluminous robe was: it looked grey, but it might have been a twilight grey-purple (appropriate, given her patroness). It seemed to waver between the two as I squinted.

"Excuse me?" I called.

The Dunmer gave me her full attention, unsurprised and unstartled to hear a mortal voice calling to her. "I've been waiting for you."

"Waiting for me?" A stupid thing to say, really, but a practical question, too.

"Lady Azura foresaw your coming," the Dunmer answered. "And before you were born, she shared this vision with me. Your arrival here, now, was not from curiosity or by command. It was Fate." Her low voice lent an extra measure of 'unnerving' to her words. I find it an uncomfortable thing that Azura would want me, specifically.

"I am a servant of the Eight," I pointed out. Almost twenty-six years is a long time to wait for someone…but from what I know of Mer and Daedra, it's not as long for them.

"What does that matter? Your Eight call all sorts from all walks. Why should my Lady be any different?" the Dunmer answered, folding her arms inside her wide sleeves.

I refrained from giving the answer that came to mind—a Vigilant's answer, I might add—since I was in the shadow of Azura's statue.

"Lady Azura is less discriminating than others. She has called. You've come. Do not worry, child: all will unfold as she has predicted." The Dunmer said it in a gently reassuring voice, inclining her head politely—which I found odd.

I pursed my lips rather than speak out of turn: Daedra can be touchy and petty, even the 'good' ones. "I have something that belongs to your lady."

"Oh?" the Dunmer approached as I set the Case on the altar—nto knowing where else to do so. I opened it with the key, then with a drop of my own blood (drawn with the handle end of the key). The Case unsealed itself, leaving me to drag the warded knapsack out, undo the wards, then pull out the Star and remove the wards from that. The process left me sweaty and woozy.

The Dunmer hissed as soon as she understood what that broken, blackened ruin on the altar was. "Sacrilege! Please, tell me the one who did this is dead!" Her red eyes gleamed in her face, her ashy skin—a healthy, good complexion among her people—crinkling with hatred and something that might have been grief.

"He was dead when found," I answered, "but we're not sure he's…_gone_." Indeed.

The Dunmer bit her lip, then glanced at the statue. "You've made great expenditure of power. You should come inside, warm yourself and rest a bit. The Star will not be taken from my Lady's feet." With this, she took me by the arm and led me down the treacherous steps. In the stonework of the Shrine, which necessitated the stairs, was a small door, easy to overlook. This door led into the Shrine's base, and into a small apartment.

"Please, sit down and rest." The Dunmer brought the fire back to full blaze with a snap of her fingers. "And, if you would, tell me how the Star came to be so…" she shook her head, as if it were too ghastly to speak about plainly.

I struggled out of my heavy wrappings and hung them near the door—they began to grow wet almost immediately—before taking the chair to which she pointed. As I related the story, she served warm, spiced wine, hot broth, and crusty bread. I found it odd that such supplies would be here, but I know very little about Daedric shrines, their upkeep, and care of those who tend them.

The fact that she was ready to feed and warm a guest lent credence to her assertion that she'd been expecting me and knew, with some degree of accuracy, when I'd come. I pushed the thoughts away, focusing on what details to omit—like which order I serve or in what capacity I serve. Of course the phrase 'servant of the Eight' is _very_ broad, encompassing a wide spectrum of beliefs and dispositions. In many cases, such as the one in which I'd used it, it merely means 'not a servant of Daedra.' Not of free will, at least.

The Dunmer, who eventually identified herself as Aranea Ienith, proved a wonderful hostess, open to answering questions—though she occasionally became vague and dodged issues, at which point bounds of propriety required me to leave off. Generally, though, I had the sense that she didn't know the answer when she evaded, and simply didn't wish to expose her ignorance.

In my book, ignorance of itself is not a crime; it only becomes so when choices are made as a result of _willful _ignorance. That's just my view, but it's proved useful during my time with the Resters.

Finally, warmed, filled, and rested, we returned outside and up to the Shrine.

The Star was still there, looking mutinous and malevolent. More so than I remember it being, though that could be because of all the bright, white snow. The storm had stopped while we were inside, though the wind still cut and the sky remained grey and threatening.

"Are you ready?" Aranea asked, once we both stood before the altar again.

"Ready for what, exactly?" I asked.

"To speak with the Lady," came the answer. She said it blankly, as though she thought this much, at least, should be painfully obvious.

I knew _that_, I _meant_ 'what does the Lady want me to do?'

I suppose there's only one way to find out.

Disliking the situation more and more, I obeyed when Aranea prompted me to step up to the altar. For good measure, or for my own peace of mind, I put one heavily-gloved hand on either side of the ugly Star. For half a second, I thought I smelled roses.

"_And here you are._" The words were paradoxical in that I _knew_ they were whispered to me, but they seemed so immense that they might as well have been shouted. "_You see what's been done to my poor Star._"

The sensation of being addressed privately—for Aranea did not seem aware of the conversation, only that it was happening—made me want to squirm. Rule of thumb: you're better off avoiding the attention of powerful Daedra.

So I thought at the time. Azura, for it was her voice, giggled—as much as a Daedric Prince can be said to giggle—in my ear, and responded to my unspoken thought. "_Now, that's remarkably unkind. Especially if you _have_ the attention of powerful Daedra _already."

I shuddered at the very thought. "You wanted something from me, madame?" I kept the words a soft murmur, the idea of Azura 'reading my mind' (so to speak) made me feel awkward. I needed my own words and hoped that this particular prince might just have enough common courtesy to let the voiced words stand and not read anything that lay behind them.

"_You could say it that way, if you like._" Her amusement was palpable. "_You found my Star because I willed it. You brought it here because I demanded it. You will now finish the job because I require it_."

Like a weed in a well-tended flowerbed, the thought 'then how did you come to let it get away from you in the first place' cropped up. I tried to shut the thought down, but wasn't sure how successful I was. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"_You have rescued my Star from Malyn Varen's disciples. Now, you must rescue my Star from Malyn Varen himself. His wretched soul resides within its confines, protected by his enchantments. Undoing such things is, I believe, part of your ordinary purview, is it not?_" She might have been making a joke, in the 'I already know the answer, but humor me' vein.

"It is, your lordship." I can't argue with her, there, even if it was wise to do so.

"Madame, if I may, the Star is your artifact. Surely, while beneath you, it is a simple matter to purge him, unworthy worm that he is." I wasn't being eloquent; I was being very carefully curious.

Many people seem to think that getting into eloquent debate with Daedric Lords—the less touchy ones—earns you respect or some sort of mark in their good books.

The Vigilants will tell you this isn't true: if Daedra humor you in clever conversation it's for their own reasons and nothing to do with how well you argue. Mortals are ants or insects by comparison to the powerful Daedra. Sometimes they're treated like cattle to be bred for a Daedra's inscrutable purposes, or treated like performing bears to be trained and displayed. No Daedra capable of speech would ever accept a member of a mortal race—Men or Mer—as anything close to an equal. It's how they are.

The Vigilants would go further, and counsel you not to let your tongue flap freely and—as best you can—do what you have to (if you can't get out of it) and break off association as quickly as possible…then proceed immediately to pay the Vigilants (or, failing that, the nearest shrine to the Divines) a visit for a checkup.

Azura giggled again, her voice dropping a few notes, "_Eventually my Star _would_ fade back into Oblivion…and it _would _bring that wretch well within my grasp. But I have reasons for wanting you to do this thing, all of which are mine and none of which I care to share." _

"Of course, Madame." I consider it a ridiculous courtesy that she gave me that much of an answer.

"_Now, it is my will that you should pass within the Star and battle Malyn Varen. Destroy him _utterly_. Free my Star of his taint…and I shall follow the old forms._"

Which is, I think, her way of saying 'payment will be given for services rendered.'

"As you wish, Madame. I can't very well let it persist in its current state." There isn't much else to say, really. I'm glad I work against the undead most days; if I had to deal with Daedra like this, I'd lose my sanity amidst all the 'yes my lord, no my lord, it shall be as you say.'

"_No. You can't,_" she answered softly. "_Prepare yourself. When you are ready, I shall send you within."_

I looked around. My pack and gear—excepting my weapons and wraps—were still inside Aranea's home, so it wasn't necessary for me to ask her to watch any of it. I drew my sword, stepping back from the altar as I did so. The scent of roses vanished as my hands left the stone. "I'm ready," I announced as boldly as I could.

There came no answer, either in my ears or in my mind, but a strange tingling sensation started in my feet—like the itch of having spent too long in uncomfortable stockings—that progressed up to my knees. But the time the tingle reached my knees, a strange sense of my feet _dissolving_ overtook me. I barely had time to wonder at the strangeness of it when every joint in my body gave one powerful pulse of aching pain, and the sense of dissolution encompassed me entirely.


	10. Chapter 10

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-B-

_Do not meddle in the affairs of Daedra. Things tend to snowball. Then to avalanche._

_~Cyrodiilic Proverb _

-B-

I pitched forward but, rather than striking the edge of the altar (with my head if I was very unlucky) I merely staggered a few steps. The world in which the Shrine, Aranea, and the corporeal Star had vanished. My feet no longer itched and, although I could see that I did, in fact, exist…I felt _odd_. Less than myself, in a way…though if Malyn had to leave his skeletal remains behind when he entered the Star, I suppose it makes sense that _I _would leave _my_ corporeal self behind when Azura sent me in here.

Which raises all sorts of concerns about what happens to me—or 'my soul'—if I die while thus...eh, _separated_ from my body.

Luckily for me, one of the Resters' (unofficial) mantras is: _don't get dead_. So all due caution shall be exercised and the worries about 'what happens' can stay topics for academic minds and scholastic debates.

That settled to my satisfaction, I looked around, taking in for the first time this most unorthodox of battlegrounds.

The place was a ruined, wrecked travesty. If a location could show that a second consciousness had taken and maimed what a first consciousness had decided, then this would be the perfect example. Of totally crystalline construction, the scenery seemed to give the sense of 'infinite space' while also conveying that only part of that infinite space existed in a fashion I would understand. That part which I 'understood' seemed like a strong-arm attempt to cobble together a temporary shelter from the wreckage of a ship. It reminded me a great deal of many platforms, connected by carefully delineated bridges, all of which were edged in large, crisscross shards of crystal.

But the articulation was clumsy at best.

The crystal was all black, like the ruined Star's corporeal form, but near where distance rendered detail indiscernible, the 'world' did seem to lighten to something less malevolent. I drew my sword, which felt strange in my hand, as if I were dreaming the action rather than performing it. "Malyn Varen!" I expected the words to echo in the space, but they did not: the air seemed to muffle the sound.

The silence that followed grew thick and, while the air's temperature did not change, I found myself feeling stymied and wanting for breath.

Swallowing down my discomfort, the growing certainty that Malyn was very conscious of my presence (and not at all apathetic about it), I clenched my left fist, a ward creeping slowly up my arm, across my torso, to my waist, down to my knees.

I turned sharply at a faint waft of scent—something ugly and unpleasant—to find the necromancer sneaking up from behind me, moving along a path that had not existed moments before.

So, he has some control over the formation and manipulation of this place. Blast it all.

Malyn Varen was, as I expected, a Dunmer, lean and lanky, clad in the same manner as his skeleton (though he now wore a hood). In one hand he held a long staff, fairly unremarkable in its form.

I noticed it only by chance, or perhaps one glitter of the Star's desire for purity sparkled: the ground closest to Malyn seemed to pull itself into a very substantial state of being. Further away, however, it was as if his ability to hold 'his realm' together diminished, the crystal lightening from black at his feet to smoky grey.

The Star, by its very nature, was resisting him. What he had done could be—would be—undone eventually, given time…but while he lived and possessed will it would simply take longer than one might expect.

If I were a scholar, I'd be _fascinated. _But I'm not, so it's not really useful information for me to have at the moment.

He hissed as he threw a spell at me—a spell that shattered at a blow from my warded hand. His spell killed my ward, but he'd lost the element of surprise. I uttered back, a hissing, slurring sound that made cold mist rise from my mouth as I gestured with my free hand. Ice condensed out of the air to form a long spike which I sent in his direction with a flick of my hand.

He slammed his staff butt-down on the ground, a pane of crystal rising up to block the attack. He swung his staff towards me, lightning arcing from it only to meet my own hastily-thrown web of the same. The two netlike spells crackled and snapped, would have caused my hair to grow frizzy in the normal world.

We stood there for a few moments in gridlock, he relying on his staff to channel power, I relying only on that power I had available.

He shouted, a wordless utterance that echoed, every echo seeming to coalesce into a plate of crystal until I stood, caged within a cylindrical construct, like a butterfly in a jar.

The upside, however, was that I no longer needed to support the spell against him. I let it drop, taking a steadying breath while I could. The trick, now, is to get out of this glorified bottle.

"I see my disciples sent me a fresh soul," he mused, his voice heavy with an accent not common to Skyrim. It grated on my ears. "And a strong, one, too!"

It won't matter to him if his disciples are dead. Necromancers _never _care who gets hurt as long as _they're_ all right.

But I know how to get out of this sort of trap. It's uncomfortable, but easy enough. I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, calling the same spell I'd used on my way to the summit of Mt. Anthor to keep warm.

"Good." He came close to the crystalline wall, which thinned enough to become transparent, like a window, though it retained its cloudy grey color. "I was getting hungry." His red eyes gleamed uncannily.

Telekinesis is a useful spell. In this case, I leaned my sword against the nearest wall so I would have both hands free. I raised my hands, feeling the blood pumping strangely strong in my fingertips, matching time with my heart. I imagined magicka creeping from the well of power those with the gift have, down my arms, into my palms, the pounding of blood in the digits increasing. I lifted my hands and smacked them against the crystalline surface, allowing them to bounce gently off. I did it again, a slow-motion, deceptively gentle parody of banging my hands against a door.

It amused Malyn, who watched with a self-satisfied smile.

Within the confines, I began to feel each telekinetic pulse, the strength of what would normally be a wave expelling from me as the epicenter directed by the strike of my hand against the wall. The pulses of power that hit the crystal so rhythmically began to beat against my eardrums until...

_Crack._ A large fracture appeared in the crystal, evidence of where the weakest portion of the structure was.

Malyn looked surprised, clearly didn't understand what I was doing as I stood there, lips pursed.

Strike. Strike. Strike.

_Crack_. The fracture expanded into a spiderweb of large fractures just as Malyn reached to touch the prison.

I struck out, hard, with all the force I could muster, and the crystal shattered, expelled outwards with the force, straight into the space Malyn occupied.

Malyn staggered back, throwing his arms up to ward his face. The crystal fragments didn't touch him, I noticed, but the all too mortal reaction to _sharp objects, incoming_ occurred, nonetheless.

I grabbed my sword and started forward, drawing back for a lunge, which was immediately foiled as Malyn turned his stagger backwards into a strategic retreat as his brain overrode his instincts. He took a defensive stance, even as I held myself ready to lunge—or, rather, while I tried to figure out how best to forego the lunge or turn a sword swing into something practical.

Malyn held up one hand, "There's something…different…about you."

I watched his off hand, the one from which an attack would most likely come. "Your corporeal form is dead," I declared bluntly, "you exist only within the realm of this artifact. This sword either hews you at the neck or takes you through the chest. Choose."

Malyn's face twitched with rage. "Who are you to challenge me? I have conquered mortality itself! Spat in the eyes of the Divines and Daedra alike!"

'Conquered mortality' has he? Hiding in here like a trapped rat? My silence in the face of his demand and declarations seemed to angry him or—which was better—unnerve him.

Here I came, some unnamed, unknown, woman who didn't need to justify herself to him: it was enough for me that that I was here to kill him. It didn't matter one bit whether he knew who I was or not. And his brand of arrogance railed against that kind of quiet confidence, that comfort of anonymity.

"This is _my_ realm!" His voice echoed as mine had not when I issued my original challenge. "_Mine_! I've sacrificed too much for you to take it from me!"

"Through the chest, then. I'll try to make it painless." Not really, but the answer unnerved and vexed him further.

"Your mistake. _I _won't." he slammed his staff against the ground and then wrenched it to the side. The crystal at his feet opened up—giving me the opportunity to turn my aborted lunge into a hasty retreat. Out of the crystal came the last thing I ever expected to see here: a Dremora, a real, (presumably) live Dremora.

…I didn't know summoning like that could _work _in this place. Not that I considered it, but still…to call another Daedric lord's servants into a corrupted artifact of another of the Princes…

It made my head frizz like my hair should be doing, reminding me that I was not a scholar for a reason. Lack of patience.

These inhabitants of Mehrunes Dagon's Deadlands are rarely seen, summoned only by those casters confident in their ability to control such a creature. Nevertheless, the Daedra dragged itself out of the crystal, looking grumpy—or maybe that was its usual expression. Despite the fact that he wore robes like a mage, he carried a large, hefty-looking mace.

"Pommel her to jelly. Bring me the leftovers," Malyn declared, somewhat theatrically in my opinion, before he sauntered off with the same supreme confidence as a well-fed cat.

The Dremora snorted eloquently: Malyn or me, what did it matter? One mortal was as jelly-able as the next and he—the Dremora—had no particular liking for either Mayln or myself.

I always understood that Dremora wandered around in big, heavy armor. They're nearly always depicted in that way. That this one dispensed with such practicalities made me cautious and made me expect _magic_.

I wasn't disappointed, either. The Dremora raised his mace to a guard position, then drew back, readying himself to make use of it as he started at a run towards me.

I dropped to the floor, the mace and the fireball not far behind it both missing me. Something in my mind twanged, like a badly-tightened string on a lyre, but the telekinetic _push_ sent the Dremora into an uncontrolled, flailing stumble, easy prey for a powerful lunge.

My sword punched through his chest as he caught himself against the crystalline spires that prevented anyone from going over the edge of this platform-and-bridge world Malyn set up. The Dremora went boneless and limp, dispatched as neatly as I could manage. I slid him off my sword, wishing I could dump him over the edge for good measure…but I couldn't, so I stuck him again for surety and turned to see if I could figure out where Malyn scuttled off to.

Obviously Azura is confident that, though he can slow me down, he cannot prevent me from catching up to him eventually. I wish I felt as confident about my end of this...endeavor.

Following Malyn was easy for two reasons: one, there was really only one path to follow, as he didn't have the imagination for branching paths and dead ends. Secondly, if the Star's environs grew lighter in the distance, they seemed to grow darker wherever he was. Just follow the corruption and you're _bound_ to come to the source.

Two Dremora later—neither of which were as easily dispatched as the first—I finally cornered Malyn. He had the stiff, hunched appearance of a dog bristling at someone approaching it with a brandished stick. Even as I advanced on him, I wondered why he didn't call more Dremora—or maybe he's operating under more constraints than I'm aware of.

Or maybe he's not much more gifted with summoning creatures than I am. "The neck," I declared, repeating the option I'd given him at our first encounter, "or the chest?"

He snarled wordlessly, his lightning spell arcing away from his fingertips in a white-purple net that left streaks across my vision. It bounded harmlessly off the ward I lifted. Like many who specialize in magic, he'd never cultivated true martial ability, which meant that he relied wholly on magicka…and when it ran out, he was helpless.

It is a fate I've steeled myself against.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, with the sensation of being soaked in sweat making my clothes cling (I could only assume my real body was sweaty and uncomfortable since I'm not, myself, corporeal here), I brought my sword down with a shout, the steel edge shattering Malyn's last feeble defense. He looked up at me, despair, rage, and hate in his eyes.

He wanted theatricalities at the outset. I gave him what he wanted now. "We serve," I announced coldly, "that the dead may walk no more." He had just enough time to comprehend what that actually _meant_ before my sword cleaved his head from his shoulders.

Or it should have, if I were dealing with a physical body. As it was, the sword merely passed through his neck, his form turning to dark smoke in the blade's wake.

The world around me trembled, then shook once. Slowly, a vibration began in the crystal, forcing me to back towards the center of the large platform upon which I'd engaged Malyn. The crystal rattled so hard I swear I could feel it in my joints. The bright light in the distance—the Star's resistance to Malyn's malignancy—began to creep forward, slowly at first, as if a trick of the eyes, then faster and faster, like water rushing to fill a void.

-B-

I shot out a hand, catching myself on the edge of the altar before Azura's statue. Sweat glazed my body, made my clothes stick uncomfortably (and left my exposed face painfully cold). It was like waking up from the sensation of falling, in that jolting moment of realization that one's position doesn't allow for 'falling.'

The soles of my feet itched from the absence of the vibrations the Star gave off before I…came back? I'm not even sure how to describe the experience. I'll worry about it later. Right now, though, my nose is cold, my feet itch, I'm sweaty and feel _weird._

So, I suppose, not so differently from most long days in my line of work. A sparkle caught my eye. The Star lay on the altar, exactly where I originally put it, but it was no longer blackened and broken. It was, as reports said of it, truly beautiful, all bright silver and sparkling crystal, more like sun in shape but certainly like a star in its glittering loveliness.

"_My Star has been cleansed!_"Azura's pleased and slightly smug voice rattled in my skull, which made my inner ears itch. "_And Malyn's soul has been consigned to Oblivion._"

Which is probably _not_ a good thing for him. I've said before that Daedra are, almost by nature, petty. Well, if they're petty over small things, imagine how unpleasant they can be when they have a legitimate grievance.

"_I am pleased with you, child._"

"I'm glad to serve, Madame."

She giggled. "_You mean 'I'm glad to be _finished _serving.' Never mind words and meanings. It is enough that I am pleased and you are finished here._"

It is at that. Strangely enough, after having spent time in the Star—having spent time in possession of a corporeal form but without making use of it—I found her disembodied voice less disconcerting.

"_You have little use for my lovely Star_," she remarked with just enough humor in her tone to suggest that she had no intention of putting her special toy in the hands of someone like me. "_But I will not have it said that Lord Azura is ungrateful to her helpers._" The Star vanished as I watched, fading from view. "_I give you two halves of a thing: a trinket and a warning._"

On the stone of the altar, fading into existence just as the Star faded out of it, appeared a small ring, ebony with a pea-sized set-in stone. The stone was amber in color, but heavily covered with black marks, like clouds, that made it seem as though the darkness held the warm glow in check.

"_Not all who serve have the master's best interests in mind. The worst trouble a mortal can find is often that to which she leaves herself open…or which she invites, herself._"

As soon as the last of the word 'herself' ended, I knew Azura had no further need of me, nothing more to say. I was dismissed as abruptly as it is possible to be without actual rudeness.

I took the ring, then pulled off one of my gloves. It was meant for a finger smaller than any of mine, but the band expanded until I slid it onto the first finger of my right hand. It constricted, burning hot for a moment. Before I could flinch the heat vanished and the ring was just a ring.

Nevertheless, for all its innocent appearance, I found myself wary of it. It was a powerful artifact, a summoning, a binding, someone went to great pains and—probably—great expense to make sure that _nothing_ with this…thing…went wrong.

I glanced at Aranea, who smile cheerfully at me. No…I think I'll wait till I'm alone to find out what double-edged dagger Azura's put into my hand. Better to find out when no one is around to get hurt if things go...badly.

And there are always the Vigilants. They can have it if it proves too much for me to want to deal with.

Even as the thought came to a close, I found myself aware that the Vigilants probably wouldn't want it. It isn't an artifact associated with Azura and, I think, she would know any such thing would go immediately into their 'ungrateful' hands.

"Do you know anything about this?" I asked, holding up the ring.

"I've never seen it before," Aranea answered. "I thought with certainty she would gift you with the Star—that's customary for such great services."

The skin along my back prickled uncomfortably at these words. Something aS useful to me as the Star might be to someone else?

"Did she tell you aught about it?" Aranea asked, admiring the dark band on my pale hand.

"No…just a warning," I answered, pulling my glove back on.

"Then if she gave you a warning you would be wise to heed it. Just as you would be equally wise _not_ to go throwing her token away." Her face remained amiable when she said it, so perhaps it was simply my mind that rendered the words in a darker vein than that in which they were spoken. "Come, it's been several hours and you look bone weary."


End file.
